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Rovel. 


Miss 


By 

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Victor Cherbuliez, 

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Author of “The Romance of an Honest Woman,” “Prosper,” &c. 


TRANSLATED BY 

FRANCES A. SHAW. 





BOSTON : 



ESTES & LAURIAT, 

143 Washington Street, 

Opposite “Old South.” 


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Copyright, 1875, 
Estes and Lauriat. 


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MISS ROVEL 


I. 


Tom Jones, if his biography is to be 
believed, met, one evening, in the envi- 
rons of Upton, an old misanthrope who 
had become a hermit. They called him 
the old man of the mountains. Clothed 
in the skin of an ass, he lived in the 
depths of a forest, where he had no diffi- 
culty in avoiding passers-by, from the 
fact that no one passed. He employed 
the days either in contemplating his long 
white beard, or in observing the plants 
and the stars. It was his creed, that all 
is beautiful in the universe except man, 
who dishonors creation. His misanthropy 
arose from having in youth been aban- 
doned by his mistress, and betrayed by the 
friend who was under many obligations 
to him. Tom Jones tried to make him 
listen to reason, but it was in vain. 
“ Why,” said Jones to him, “ do you vent 
your resentment upon all mankind? You 
have been the victim of a grievous mis- 
chance; but, believe me, I know honor- 
able men and faultless women.” 

“ You are still very young,” replied the 
old man; “ at your age I thought as you 
do.” 

Raymond Ferray did not wear a white 
beard: at the moment when this story 
opens, he was scarce thirty-four years old. 
He was not clad in the skin of an ass ; for, 
if he was little troubled when he dis- 
pleased others, he held to pleasing him- 
self. Like the man of the mountains, he, 
too, had been betrayed by the woman he 
loved; and this experience had rendered 
him’ a misanthrope, or rather, a woman- 
hater. At the age of serious passions, he 
had sworn that he would have no more 
of them, and defied women to force an 
entrance to his heart. He felt himself 
protected from them by the height of his 
disdain. 

The son of a provincial physician who 
had established himself in Paris, he had 
early been left an orphan. An uncle had 
become his guardian, and had proved 
more useful In managing his fortune. 


which was considerable, than in advising 
him as to the choice of a profession. It 
is superfluous to say to the vineyards of 
Burgundy that they are born to produce 
wine : Raymond needed no one to aid him 
in discovering his vocation. After having 
for some time hesitated between poetry 
and science, he resolved to cultivate both. 
He made up his mind that exact precision 
is the virtue of great poets ; and that, if a 
little science draws away from poetry,, 
much science leads to it.- His amazing 
precocity of intellect had been the admi- 
ration and the affright of his professors. 
At eighteen he knew Hebrew, Persian, 
and Arabic. Nature had evidently pre- 
destined him for an Orientalist. * 

Of medium height, vigorous and nerv- 
ous, thin, tawny, with an aquiline nose, 
black eyes large and expressive, his glance 
at the same time lively and winning, his 
mouth small and firm, he had the appear- 
ance of an Arab; his physiognomy was 
that singular blending of almost feminine 
sweetness with a savage, almost ferocious 
boldness, which is peculiar to the Oriental. 
His comrades at the Lyceum had sur- 
named him the Bedouin, and the sobri- 
quet was not designed as an insult. If 
they little fancied his brusque, sometimes 
haughty manners, they appreciated the 
reliability of his friendship, the nobility of 
his character, generous and frank as 
gold. 

His beard had scarce sprouted, when he 
began to collect materials for a histoi y of 
Mahomet, which in his opinion had not 
yet been written. This was to be his 
monument. Some competent judges, who 
were in the secret of his portfolios, de- 
clared that the future biographer of the 
prophet was a man of genius ; that to vast 
erudition he united an uncommon saga- 
city; that he was called to revivify the 
history of the Orient by important dis- 
coveries. Like Ansse de Villoison, Ray- 
mond would have deserved being a mem- 
ber of the Institute at twenty-four years. 
He cared little for this honor. His free, 
wilful, and somewhat fickle disposition, 


4 


MISS ROVEL. 


was impatient of restraint, and infinitely 
preferred science to learned bodies. 

He was approaching his thirtieth year, 
when he published the first volume of his 
History of Mahomet, which justified all 
the predictions of his friends. Before 
writing the second, he wished to become 
personally acquainted with Arabia. He 
passed two years ranging on horseback, 
or on the back of a camel, over the rocky 
valleys of the Yemen, the pasture-grounds 
of Nedjed, the sandy flats of Asha, 
mingling familiarly in the tent-life of the 
Hadesi and the Bedouins. With an au- 
dacity which might have proved fatal to 
him, he resolved to visit the holy places. 
Disguised as a dervish, he gained entrance 
to a caravan of pious Mussulmans ; with 
them he went to pray at the tomb of the 
prophet ; with them he made seven times 
the tour of the Caaba, and kissed devoutly 
the black stone. If he had been recog- 
nized, he would have paid dear for his 
temerity; and, to tell the truth, he was 
more than once in danger of his life. He 
owed his safety to his bronzed complexion, 
to his aquiline nose, to his marvellous 
possession of the language, and his re- 
markable sang-froid. On returning to 
Djeddah, he wrote an account of his ad- 
venture, which appeared in a celebrated 
review, and drew the attention of all 
Europe to the pretended pilgrim. Shortly 
after, he published a collection of sonnets, 
wrought by a master-hand ; they exhaled 
the airs of Arabia, the immensity of the 
desert, a dreamy wisdom which had taken 
the turban, 

Raymond had not gone to Arabia for 
the sole purpose of holding communion 
with Mahomet. He had withdrawn from 
Paris in obedience to a command. Is it 
hard to obey when one loves ? This Bed- 
ouin had an ardent heart which knew 
no half-love. The beautiful Madame de 
P., whom he adored, had committed the 
folly of marrying a man violent as licen- 
tious, who rendered her very unhappy. 
Raymond had become the confidant, the 
consoler of her sorrows. For eighteen 
months he had been the happiest of mor- 
tals, when Monsieur de P. was attacked 
by an incurable maladj. He became 
crippled, palsied, lost his sight, and the 
doctors declared he had not long to live. 
Madame de P., who to her beauty added 
every delicacy of the heart, said one even- 
ing to Raymond, “ I cannot bear to de- 
ceive a sick man. My husband is con- 
demned to death : let us respect his last 
days. Go to the desert, reap a harvest of 
science and of glory ; render illustrious a 
name which I shall hereafter be proud 
to bear. Let us part for a time, and swear 
to me that you will not forget me.” 

This last recommendation was super- 
fluous. Raymond took with him to the 
East fifty projects of work, a hundred 


problems to be solved, and an adored re- 
membrance which gave value to all the 
rest. He held converse with it in all the 
languages he knew. When one has the 
happiness of speaking Arabic, and of 
being loved by a Madame de P., two 
years of exile pass as a single day. All 
along the route, he received the most 
tender missives from his mistress ; from 
them there exhaled an odor of passion 
which seemed to him a thousand times 
more precious than the myrrh and the 
balm of Mecca. The last which reached 
him apprised him that Monsieur de P. 
was no longer of this world. This 
tidings almost drove Raymond mad with 
ecstasy. He passed eight consecutive 
hours in contemplating tlie beauty of his 
future in the smoke of his chibouque. 
He felt within himself a strength to lift 
mountains, to renew all the miracles of 
Mahomet. It seemed to him that the 
stones and the plants saluted him as they 
had the prophet; that, if he wished, he 
might have the moon at his disposal. In 
the joy of his heart, he repeated this 
verse of the Koran : “ Thou shalt possess 
the promised garden, laved by eternally 
fresh waters, shaded by eternally green 
trees. There thou shalt be visited by 
angels, entering through all the gates.” 
He did not demand so many of these 
celestial beings : one angel sufficed for his 
paradise. He passed the night at his 
window, his glance lost in the firmament ; 
he believed that there he saw beaming 
the eyes he loved. 

Some months later he arrived in Paris, 
his heart a prey to that delicious inquie- 
tude which accompanies great hopes. 
He asked himself, “ Wliat will be her 
first word? Will she have strength to 
speak? Shall I have strength to remain 
standing before her ? Shal I we not both 
die of joy?” He arrived, he rushed to 
her. A morose concierge spared him the 
trouble of climbing the staircase which 
led to his paradise. This cruel man 
told him that Madame de P. was in 
Italy, where she had gone on her bridal 
tour, she having a fortnight before mar- 
ried a stock-broker. * 

The blow was terrible. It struck to the 
inmost heart, a man extreme in all his 
sentiments, and abandoned to his passion 
as a Mussulman to his destiny. Ray- 
mond fell dangerously ill. For six months 
he hovered between life and death. But 
his vigorous constitution triumphed. He 
left his bed alive, although only a shadow 
of his former self. Mahomet, Arabia, 
his talents, his dreams of the future and 
of glory, — he felt for them all, for all 
he had loved and hoped, only a profound 
and bitter indifference. He was, as it 
were, detached from his own life; the 
Raymond Ferray whom he had known 
for thirty years seemed to him a stranger 


MISS KOVEL. 5 


who had succumbed to a fatal accident. 
Impatient to forget entirely this dead 
man, he resolved to quit Paris, to expa- 
triate his remembrances, to bury in some 
retreat closed from human gaze, his de- 
spair and his anger which extended to the 
whole race of Eve and Adam. He de- 
tested all women, who are only caprice 
and falsehood, and he could not pardon 
men for allowing themselves to be gov- 
erned by so wicked and dangerous an 
animal. 

It had happened, that, during his 
sojourn in Arabia, one of his uncles, 
married to a Genevoise, had died child- 
less, leaving to his nephew a little 
estate situated three-quarters of a league 
from Geneva. He resolved that this 
estate, which he would call “ The Her- 
mitage,” should be his destination. As 
soon as he was able to travel, he started 
for his hermitage, which pleased him 
vastly. A pretty house built on the crest 
of a hill, a garden, an orchard on the 
declivity, three large willows in the midst 
of a meadow, while below lay a little 
forest of ashes and poplars, on the bor- 
ders of a rushing stream, — could one find 
a better place? If he had resolved to 
bury himself, he was not one of those 
individuals who can be content with any 
thing, and who, provided people do not 
annoy them, are satisfied with an inter- 
ment of the humblest kind. He expected 
to enjoy some comfort in his cofiin. He 
was soon installed within it. 

The Prince de Ligne has said that 
agriculture and metaphysics are two hon- 
orable retreats, where, if one can still be 
deceived, at least it is not by men. Ray- 
mond, who had a facility for every thing, 
very soon learned how to cultivate his 
garden. He passed here the greater por- 
tion of his time. In the evening he 
philosophized. He had repudiated for- 
ever his favorite studies, as if they had 
been accomplices in his misfortune. 
Arabic and Persian were alike odious to 
him. He blushed to think that he had 
but yesterday composed madrigals in the 
language of the Saadi, in honor of the 
beautiful eyes of Madame de P. But, 
as some occupation is necessaiy to a 
mind so active, he conceived the project 
of translating Lucretius into verse, — Lu- 
cretius, that lofty contemner of the gods 
and the passions, the most sombre of the 
great poets, the only one he took pleasure 
still in reading. He possessed a rare 
edition of this poet, which he had mag- 
nificently bound. It was his evangel. 
He judged it useless to write in the mar- 
gin, as a certain English commentator 
had done, “ Aofu bene: when I have 
finished my Lucretius, I shall have to 
kill myself.” Scarce recovering from a 
malady which had nearly proved fatal, 
he loved to persuade himself that itl 


would yet carry him off, and that his life 
would end sooner than his translation. 

Whatever might have been his aversion 
to women, Raymond had one of them 
with him, and it would have been diffi- 
cult to dispense with her society. This 
woman was Mile. Agatha Ferray, his 
sister. Small, thin, almost diaphanous, 
slightly lame in the left foot, her gaze 
downcast, her eyes blinking, her nose 
pointed, incessantly moving her lips as if 
she were muttering some eternal oremus 
or secretly conversing with herself, she 
had the attentive and restless air of a 
mouse occupied in nibbling at a thought. 
Assuredly she was neither handsome nor 
pretty; but the smile which illumined 
her animated face was almost divine. It 
expressed infinite mildness, and un- 
fathomable depths of goodness. Al- 
though Mile. Ferray wished well to all 
creation, including even dogs and cats, 
she reserved for her brother the depths 
of her heart. She was a dozen years 
older than he, and had taken the mother’s 
place with him in childhood. Not to 
leave him, she had in her time refused an 
eligible marriage. This brother, who was 
sometimes rough to her, was her glory, 
her divinity, and her romance. She 
believed in his genius, she worshipped 
him. Her heart was rent with sorrow 
when he announced his resolution of 
abandoning Paris, of breaking away from 
his career to live henceforth as a hermit. 
She could scarce conceive that Madame 
de P.’s having married a stock-broker 
could be a reason for renouncing all. 
After some timid remonstrances which 
were ungraciously received, she resigned 
herself to the inevitable. She affected 
even to approve her brother’s resolution, 
— to enter into his quarrel with life, but 
at the same time, she promised herself to 
restore this wounded heart. She was by 
temperament, an optimist ; she held that 
all will arrange itself, and believed with 
the best part of her soul in a Providence 
incessantly occupied in disentangling 
entangled things, in mending, in patch- 
ing, in rehabilitating, in redressing affairs 
and people that go wrong. She said to 
herself that these first transports of a 
despair which seemed excessive must 
pass away ; full of confidence in the 
beneficent action of time, she believed 
assuredly that reason would have its day. 
Meantime this excellent housekeeper ex- 
erted herself to render life agreeable to 
her invalid. She prepared him good 
cheer, and, in default of something better, 
she encouraged him to prune his rose- 
bushes, and translate Lucretius. Scarce 
had he passed three months at The Her- 
mitage, ere she had the delight of seeing 
his health re-established, his moods 
softened ; the asperity of his chagrin had 
changed into what the fabulist calls the 


6 


MISS ROVEL. 


sombre pleasures of a melancholy heart. 
It is certain that The Hermitage was a 
charming place. The spring, a brook, a 
willow, a nightingale — he was almost 
near the happiness in which he believed 
no longer. 

But, if one undertakes to live in soli- 
tude, it rarely happens that one has not 
some neighbor. A gunshot beyond the 
brook upon whose meanderings Raymond 
so loved to gaze, rose a very elegant house 
which its proprietor rented every year to 
some one of the numerous birds of pass- 
age, the fine season draws to Geneva. 
This villa, which they had named “ La 
Prairie,” had remained tenantless and 
closed for several months ; but, in the first 
days of August, it opened its doors and 
windows, and a strange lady took pos- 
session. She was an English lady on the 
verge of forty, who was celebrated in all 
•civilized countries for her beauty mirac- 
ulously preserved, for the supreme ele- 
gance of her person, for her bearing so 
like that of a sultana or goddess, and 
especially for the number and €clat of 
her adventures, a few of which had been 
much noised abroad. 

Lady Rovel was not one of those 
women who hide their true natures, who 
make good terms with the world, who 
say one thing and do another. That 
which Lady Rovel did, she said; that 
which she said, she did. She was, after 
her fashion, a woman of principles ; she 
professed hers openly, and declared, that, 
without adventures, life would be a mor- 
tal ennui; that she had come into the 
world to do her own pleasure, and it was 
most decidedly her pleasure not to be 
ennuy^d; that, moreover, she was ac- 
countable only to herself for her actions, 
and that what people may say of you 
frightens only fools. When an English- 
woman once decides to outrage the pro- 
prieties, she goes to such lengths as to 
astonish the whole world. 

At sixteen years of age. Lady Rovel 
had married the governor of one of the 
English Antilles. Having averred, some 
years after marriage, that her disposition 
was absolutely incompatible with that of 
the Hon. Sir John Rovel, she had left 
Barbadoes to return to Europe, where she 
promenaded from capital to capital, her 
chestnut tresses arranged in a coronet, 
her robes a little too showy, and her fan- 
tasies innumerable. Superb, imperious, 
she well knew her full value; she would 
for a long time allow herself to be adored 
to no purpose ; and, after throwing all her 
devotees into despair, she would "all of a 
sudden, as by some mysterious illusion, 
become gracious. The happy ones of 
this world who had won her favor — 
and among them figured three great per- 
sonages and one crowned head — had 
seen themselves treated by her as subjects 


by their sovereign. She exacted from all 
an absolute submission, led them with a 
high baton, and at the least affront broke 
with them irretrievably. The reason of 
all this was, that, like Diogenes with 
lantern in hand, she was seeking an 
ideal man. She had more than once 
believed that she had found him, but had 
soon confessed herself deceived; yet, 
when one has a taste for science, and a 
genius for discovery, one is not easily 
disheartened. She continued to seek; 
she did not despair of finding. 

Her last mistake had been an Italian 
prince with whom she had become so 
much infatuated as to depart with him for 
Syria. This prince chancing to make a 
mediocre enough figure in an encounter 
with brigands, "she banished him from her 
heart tliat minute, and forsook him. She 
was readily consoled for her disillusion by 
the chief of the band who had robbed him. 
But she found, that, despite his romantic 
physiognomy, this pickpocket was not at 
all gallant; that he prized a fine ransom 
far more than a fine woman. Furious at 
this double deception. Lady Rovel, as soon 
as she recovered her liberty, returned to 
Europe, and came to Switzerland for quiet 
and repose. Arriving at Geneva, she 
consulted a physician, who advised the 
country, rest, and asses’ milk. Regard- 
less of the displeasure she was about to 
cause an ex-Arabian, she came to lodge 
in his neighborhood, proposing to pass 
here the remainder of the summer. 

She took regularly her diet of asses’ 
milk, and it was not in this particular 
that she discommoded Raymond ; but he 
had little taste for her method of enjoy- 
ing and practising repose. There are 
women to whom the faculty recommend 
in vain that solitude which is forbidden 
them by nature. They exercise a power 
of attraction, which nothing can resist; 
wherever they place themselves, they 
become the centre of a whirlwind. En- 
close a honeycomb in a buffet, and you 
will be very skilful if you prevent the 
flies rushing to it. Lady Rovel had not 
been three days at La Prairie, when all 
the strangers of distinction en route for 
Geneva had wind of her arrival. She 
knew all Europe, and all Europe knew 
her. Young or old, some came to her 
from habit, others from curiosity ; others 
still, impelled by hope, hurried on to force 
her gates. She soon held full court, and 
it was a very noisy court. The whole 
fashionable world came and went on 
horseback or in carriages ; they breakfasted 
on the lawn, they supped upon the ter- 
race, they fired pistols, they chatted, they 
jaughed. Evenings there were Venetian 
illuminations, and concerts prolonged far 
into the night. This continual liurrah 
cruelly tortured Raymond’s ears, and in- 
terrupted his mute contemplations with 


MISS ROVEL. 


7 


the sylvan divinities of his little forest, 
which had now lost its mystery. This 
invalid would gladly have had straw laid 
before his gates ; he adored long silences. 
The only sounds which he could tolerate 
were the murmur of the brook running 
past, the confidences a poplar breathed 
out to the wooing breezes, and, at 
midnight, the distant barking of a 
watchdog at some passer-by or at the 
moon. 

Lady Rovel had two children, — a son 
who had remained at Barbadoes with his 
father, and a daughter who had come to 
Europe with her mother. Miss Meg 
Rovel had not yet reached her sixteenth 
year. She was a blonde with black eyes, 
very captivating in person, well formed 
for her age, full of strength and health, 
lively, restless, with feet and hands for- 
ever in motion. They treated her as a 
child, and it was only justice, although 
she complained of it, and fumed at the 
short dresses she was compelled to wear ; 
but the child promised to be one day 
beautiful as her mother. The one was 
an admirable hot-house flower : in seeing 
the other you thought of a superb peach 
of the espalier. A. little more rain and 
sun, and to-morrow the fruit would be 
ripe ; happy he who could pluck it ! 

Meg had always been, by turns, an idol 
and an embarrassment to her mother. 
Lady Rovel was proud of this growing 
beauty; but a child in an incidental, wan- 
dering life is a great incumbrance. When 
Lady Rovel’ s heart was unoccupied, she 
persuaded herself that she was the ten- 
derest of mothers, and she saw nothing 
more adorable than her daughter. This 
illusion would endure for good or ill, 
until she flattered herself that she was 
once more on the track of the ideal man. 
There would then be a new lease with 
passion; and just as the caprice seized 
her, she stowed Meg away somewhere, 
as one relieves one’s self of a troublesome 
package. This new experience having 
ere long miscarried like the preceding, 
sobered by her chimera, and renouncing 
forever, that is to say until the new 
moon, the idea of finding the phoenix, 
the dream of which tormented her, she 
would suddenly remember that she had a 
daughter, that this daughter was neces- 
sary to the happiness of her life. As 
when in repose sjie had an excellent 
memory, she would recollect exactly 
where she had placed her, and hasten to 
seek her. 

Thus it had happened on her return 
from Syria ; and thus Meg, as well as her 
mother, had become the neighbor of Ray- 
mond Ferray. Tender mother as she 
was. Lady Rovel found in her whirling 
life only three minutes a day to occupy 
herself with the education of her daughter. 
The child was growing up as it pleased 


God, under the care of a languishing 
negress named Pamela, who took little 
thought of her young charge, her sole 
study being to adorn herself, and to con- 
template her flat nose and white teeth in a 
little pocket-mirror which never left her. 
And so Meg was almost absolute mistress 
of her employments and her time. The 
work she preferred to all others, was to 
play cricket, to balance herself on the 
fences, to climb trees, to angle for craw- 
fish in the brook, to tear her dresses in 
all the brambles. In her walks, she in- 
cessantly ran away from the indolent Pa- 
mela, whose nasal voice, calling after her, 
echoed all around. “Meg, come back!” 
she would cry; “Meg, where are you? 
Meg, take care, the craw-fish will eat 
you!” Raymond from his garden heard 
the long-drawn appeals, and wished with 
all his heart that Meg could be eaten 
once for all. He had other causes of 
complaint, even more serious ones, against 
this horrible child. She had vague 
enough notions as to meum and teum, and 
a pronounced taste for marauding. He 
suspected her of sometimes cutting across 
the brook, to despoil his espaliers. He 
watched her, surprised her in the flagrant 
act ; but, supple as an eel, the young free- 
booter glided through his fingers, and ran 
away laughing him to scorn. 

Mile. Agatha Ferray was far from 
sharing her brother’s resentment against 
their neighbors. Indulgence, that daugh- 
ter of heaven, had builded an inviolable 
temple in her heart, the sanctuary of the 
Graces. This easy-tempered person com- 
prehended all, excused all, pardoned all. 
When the misdeeds of some sinner were 
recounted to her, she would begin by 
being indignant at the culprit, by crying 
out against him ; and then she would add 
quickly, “ And yet, when we reflect, all 
explains itself; and, if we could only 
obtain from this evil-doer a promise not 
to repeat the crime, ah, just God! we 
must pardon him, — we who so often 
stand in need of pardon ourselves.” 

If the majority of people were of Mile. 
Ferray’ s character, there would be no 
more lawsuits in the world; the tribu- 
nals would have a perpetual holiday, the 
lawyers would have to shut up shop. 
Her eyes revealed the exquisite benevo- 
lence of her soul ; they seemed to cry, 
like the angels of the Lord, “Peace on 
earth, good will toward men!” And 
yet she had another reason for bearing 
patiently the conduct of Lady Rovel and 
her daughter. Saint as she was, she had 
not ceased being woman ; she could 
scarce accommodate herself to so uni- 
form a life, deprived of all incident. I 
suspect that Saint Theresa herself was 
not sorry to have neighbors, and to know 
what was passing on the other side of 
her hedge. 


8 


MISS EOVEL. 


“ Car pour les nouyeaut^s * 
On pent avoir parfois des curiosites.” 

Tliese are the delicate spices of inno- 
cent lives. As women have peculiar 
facilities for learning or divining what 
they wish to know, and as they always 
love to exercise these talents, three days 
had sufficed Mile. Ferray without much 
extra exertion to discover very nearly 
who Lady Kovel was, and to imagine the 
rest. 

Unknown to her brother, she had 
occasion to see this British lioness close 
by, and to extend her an act of courtesy. 
The borders of The Hermitage boasted a 
dense thicket of moss-roses of incompar- 
able beauty. Lady Kovel, passing along 
the road on horseback, perceived these 
roses through the iron lattice, and, with- 
out further ceremony, ordered her groom 
to bring her a bouquet. Mile. Ferray, 
who chanced to be there, hastened to 
satisfy this august desire. She arranged 
a bouquet, gave herself the pleasure of 
offering it in person, and was recom- 
pensed for her politeness by a nod and 
an Olympian smile. 

Two days later, walking along the 
brook-side, she perceived Meg seated on 
the opposite bank, chattering with a 
magpie which gave her great delight. 
Mile. Ferray adjusted her lorgnette upon 
her nose; and, after some moments of 
silent contemplation, she cried, “ My 
lovely child, instead of stealing peaches, 
why do you not ask for them?” 

Meg impudently replied, “ My dear 
mademoiselle, it is because stolen peaches 
taste better than any others.” 

And, rising, she made a low reverence. 

Far from being scandalized at Meg’s 
impertinence. Mile. Ferray took away 
with her from this short interview a 
lively admiration for those large black 
eyes which seemed to devour the face, and 
a profound pity for this neglected child, 
and for the future in store for her. The 
examples which Miss Kovel had before 
her eyes, the conversations she heard 
in her mother’s mlon, the long hours she 
passed in solitude, which is very often 
the Devil’s advocate, all must contribute 
equally to pervert this young soul. Who 
would save her from herself and from 
others ? The excellent demoiselle medi- 
tated a great deal upon this. In the 
country one has much time to follow 
one’s thoughts, and hers ran on so quick- 
ly that she often found it difficult to 
overtake them. 


11 . 

One morning when Kaymond was 
walking in the orchard with his sister, 
he redoubled his complaints against the 


neighbors destiny had sent as an inflic- 
tion upon them. Last evening, the 
moon being at its full. Lady Kovel had 
taken a fancy to have her tea-table set 
upon the borders of the stream which 
divided the two estates. After supper, 
violins, hautboys, and hunting-horns had 
kept Kaymond awake until the dawn. 
To crown all, his gardener had just in- 
formed him that a new insult had been 
offered to his fruits: five or six of the 
finest peaches had disappeared with the 
branch that bore them. Kaymond had 
cause enough for formal complaint 
against the hautboys of Lady Kovel, and 
tiie high-handed proceedings of Miss 
Meg. ile declared that his patience was 
at an end, that he should take legal 
counsel as to means of protecting his 
sleep and his espaliers. 

Mile. Ferray venerated her brother too 
much to openly contradict him. She 
*Was always of his opinion, but she was 
very careful not to review in detail what 
she had conceded to him in the gross. 
This is really an art in which women 
excel. She entered into his feelings, she 
espoused all his grievances; then she 
timidly suggested to him, that at^night, 
when the moon shines, an air upon the 
hautboy is not disagreeable ; that, as for 
the peaches, it was by no means certain 
that Miss Kovel had stolen and eaten 
them. She added, that this poor little 
girl, having been once caught in such a 
trespass, would not be likely to repeat it, 
that she had no doubt profited by the 
lesson, and The Hermitage had nothing 
more to fear from her depredations. 

Mile. Ferray had reached this point in 
her demonstration, when at the end of 
the orchard she perceived something like 
a great black ball, which with one bound 
passed over the hedge. Her brother, who 
was very far and very clear sighted, 
assured her that this ball was composed of 
a pony and an Amazon, the one bearing 
the other, and that this Amazon W9,8 
Miss Meg, who was thus practising her 
riding-school exercises. The perilous 
leap she had just executed had not 
proved a success. The pony fell on one 
side, Meg on the other. But Meg was not 
at the mercy of a fall : she quickly 
picked herself up, bounded back into the 
saddle, lashed the pony with the great 
whip she held in her hands, and dashed 
across the orchard. The aftermath was 
magnificent this year; the grass rose to 
the lower branches of the plum and pear 
trees. Kaymond raised a cry of indigna- 
tion, and sought to precipitate himself 
upon the enemy ; but the enemy saw him 
coming, and. darting aside into the forest 
swiftly as the pony’s four legs could 
carry her, gained a place where the bed 
of the stream had become so narrow that 
in a case of emergency it was possible to 


MISS ROVEL. 


9 


leap across. In the twinkle of an eye, 
the leap was made ; and, perceiving her- 
self out of reach, Meg from her strong- 
hold upon the opposite bank set up a 
victorious hurrah. 

“ I tell you once for all, Agatha, this is 
too much!” cried Raymond as soon as 
he could recover breath ; and he ran in- 
continently to Lady Rovel, to signify to 
her that the collier expects to be master 
in his own domain. 

He handed his card to a valet de cham- 
hre who ushered him into a little parlor 
where he waited for some time. At last 
a door opened, and Lady Rovel appeared 
wearing a rich dressing-gown trimmed 
with lace, her hair negligently arranged, 
rippling around shoulders that Juno 
might have envied. She had just issued 
from the bath, fresh, invigorated, her 
complexion dazzling ; beautiful as a sum- 
mer sun which arises from the bosom of 
the waves. Despite the errand on which 
he had come, this enemy of woman could 
not resist a sort of fascination. But he 
soon composed his visage, and forbade 
its betrayal of so unworthy a weakness. 
He examined Lady Rovel, and Lady 
Rovel examined him. She was struck 
with his energetic, expressive face, with 
the fire of his glance. It seemed to her 
that this meagre little man might perhaps 
be somebody. In any event, she did not 
doubt that he had come to present her his 
devoirs or his homage, perhaps to thank 
her for having deigned to admire his 
roses; surely he had the intention of lay- 
ing at her feet his hedges, his orchard, 
his house, his ox, his ass, and his own 
person. She was accustomed to such 
ardors. 

She advanced toward Raymond, fixing 
upon him a glance which was neither rigid 
nor disdainful, and motioned to him to 
take a seat. 

“ If I do not deceive myself, monsieur, 
we are country neighbors,” said she. 

“Yes, madame, to my sorrow,” replied 
he dryly. 

This response, and the gesture which 
accompanied it, made Lady Rovel recoil a 
step: she would little -allow anyone to 
speak to her in that tone. She observed 
Raymond anew; she scanned him from 
head to foot, as if to take the measure of 
the varlet. She said to herself, “What is 
this insect? Whence does he come ? What 
would he have ? Can he be so lacking in 
sense, as not to know to whom he 
speaks? ” 

But, the more she regarded him, the less 
she succeeded, in spite of her efforts, in 
convincing herself that Raymond was an 
insect. She persuaded herself that she 
had been deceived ; that she had taken for 
insolence, an embarrassed declaration, the 
transport of an amorous despair; that 
doubtless Raymond had wished to say, — 


“ I am very unhappy in being your 
neighbor, madame; for, if La Prairie did 
not adjoin the Hermitage, I should not 
have occasion to see you pass before my 
lattices, and the tranquillity of my heart, 
as well as the repose of my nights, would 
encounter fewer dangers.” 

Satisfied with this interpretation, which 
made all clear, she sat down, saying, — 

“ Explain yourself to me, monsieur. 
Why are you so unhappy in having me 
for a neighbor ? ” 

“I beg your pardon, madame,” replied 
he. “ I am an original ; I have a solitary 
disposition ; all my neighbors displease me, 
whoever they may be, and more especially 
if they have what seems to me an exagge- 
rated taste for the hunting-horn. I ad- 
mit at the same time that I am wrong in 
reproaching you for your little serenade 
last night, and the sleeplessness it caused 
me. Now admit, on your part, that, if you 
are allowed to do what you please at 
home, my rights as proprietor are also 
sacred as yours. But you have a daugh- 
ter, who, permit me to tell you, is a child 
very badly reared, and who has no very 
clear idea as to mine and thine. On sev- 
eral occasions, she has come to steal my 
peaches ; and now she has taken the lib- 
erty to pass my hedge, and make her 
horse caracole right through the midst of 
my beautiful meadow. Be careful, I pray 
you, to lay some restraint upon her ; shut 
her up in her chamber sometimes, and 
give her certain enlightenments as to her 
rights and her duties : she seems to me to 
have need of them.” 

During this harangue. Lady Rovel had 
experienced an access of astonishment 
and indignation, which was almost suffo- 
cating to her. That a man could have 
the illustrious fortune of finding himself 
tUe-a-tUe with her at the hour when she 
had just left the bath; and that this man 
should be so bereft of reason, so denuded 
of judgment, so abandoned by all the 
gods, as to employ these short, precious 
instants in speaking of her faults and of 
his meadow-grass, — such a piece of folly 
had in it something so unusual, so strange, 
so rough, that she could not believe-it, 
that she asked herself if it had really hap- 
pened. As soon as she had recovered 
L-om her stupor, she rose brusquely, and 
said, — 

“ Monsieur, will you have the goodness 
to calculate the exact value of your grass 
and of your peaches ? Send me your bill, 
and it shall be paid upon the instant.” 

“ I shall send you no bill, madame,” 
replied he: “I only desire you to address 
some salutary warning to your daughter, 
so that, in future, I may be under no ne- 
cessity of troubling you with my com- 
plaints.” 

“ Ah, monsieur,” replied she, raising 
her voice, “you ought to know that a 


10 


MISS ROVEL. 


man who has the least sense, or the least 
character, — one goes but a little way 
without the other, — complains of nothing 
to nobody, that he regulates all his little 
affairs himself, and does himself justice. 
If you surprise Meg marauding around 
your place, assume yourself the task of 
seizing her and shutting her up. I will 
then discuss with you the price of her 
ransom. It will afford me infinite pleas- 
ure to meet again a man who, I confess to 
you, has succeeded in astonishing me; 
and God knows how rare astonishments 
are with me in these days.” 

Whereupon, having courtesied to him 
with ironical politeness, she walked has- 
tily to the door. At the moment of put- 
ting her hand upon the latch, she turned 
her head, and once more gazed at this 
preposterous man with an air of aston- 
ishment mingled with profound disdain, 
as if she were contemplating in some booth 
at a fair, an albino, a calf with three 
heads, or any other phenomenon of the 
same kind. Then she murmured in Eng- 
lish between her teeth, “ What a hear! ” 

“I know English, madame,” said Ray- 
mond, with a graceful inclination. 

“ Wafijur ein Bar!” returned she. 

“ And Geiman,” added he. 

“ In that case, que oso ! ” 

“ And a little Spanish,” said he. 

She began to laugh immoderately, and 
cried, “ Very well, monsieur. I ought to 
have begun by saying to you in good 
French, that you are one of the most 
ill trained bears I have ever met in the 
great menagerie of this world.” And 
with these words she disappeared. 

Raymond returned home highly dis- 
pleased with the reception that had been 
given to his complaints, and firmly re- 
solved to administer to Miss Rovel the 
briskest of lessons, if she ever fell into 
his hands ; but destiny, which laughs at 
our anger as well as at our love, had de- 
cided that this very day, far from taking 
vengeance for the forage upon his garden, 
and the insult to his grass so outrageously 
trampled down, he should render Meg the 
most essential of services, in saving her 
from the consequences into which one of 
her innumerable freaks had involved 
her. 

In the afternoon he had been taking a 
walk with his sister. Upon the return, 
as they were passing behind La Prairie, 
their attention was suddenly arrested by 
shrill cries of fury and despair which had 
nothing human. One would have said 
now, that these frightful howls were set 
up by a traveller, who, scaling a precipice, 
felt the rope break which attached him to 
his companions ; now, that they were the 
shrill mutterings of a hencoop invaded 
by a pole-cat, or the hoarse bellowings of 
a stag fallen into some ambuscade, and 
angrily protesting against his captivity. 


Mile. Ferray trembled, grew pale, and 
stood still. “What is going on at our 
neighbor’s now?” said she to Raymond. 
“ l" really believe they are killing some- 
body.” 

“A beautiful state of things!” replied 
he, shrugging his shoulders. ‘‘ I think I 
recognize the voice of Miss Meg. That 
adorable child loves music as well as her 
mother.” 

He was about proceeding on his way. 
Ilis sister held him by the lappet of his 
coat, assuring him that some great ca- 
lamity had happened, and they were call- 
ing for help. Theories having redoubled 
in intensity, she hung to his arm, and 
dragged him along the avenue of acacias 
that lied to Lady Rovel’s house. When 
the man of the mountain — Fielding as- 
sures us that it was so — heard from a 
hilltop the despairing appeals of an un- 
happy woman whom a bandit was about 
to strangle, he left Tom Jones to steal 
alone to her defence; while he seated 
himself unconcernedly on the grass, and 
began to contemplate the sky. Raymond 
was by no means so consummate a mis- 
anthrope as the man of the mountain ; it 
is not given to every one to be perfect in 
his role. 

Having traversed the vestibule without 
meeting any one, he penetrated to an 
ante-chamber, which contained a huge 
clothes-press of old oak, closed with a 
double door. It was from this clothes- 
press that the cries issued. Two steps 
from it, an affrighted negress Avas mutter- 
ing patei'nosters, raising frequent cries 
of “Alas!” and extending her anus to 
heaven, not knowing upon Avhat saint to 
call. Perplexed people are always happy 
in finding some one to speak to. The 
negress ran to Raymond ; and, forcibly re- 
pressing her cries, she explained to him 
in English, that Meg having committed 
the indiscretion of trying on a robe of her 
mother’s, and the awkwardness of mak- 
ing a rent in it. Lady Rovel, greatly irri- 
tated, had shut her up in this old oak 
clothes-press; that, immediately after, 
three gentlemen had called to see milady; 
that she had left on horseback with them ; 
that before leaving she had forgotten to 
set her child at liberty ; that no one kncAV 
when she would return, her promenades 
being sometimes very long; and that it 
Avas to be feared Meg would die of con- 
vulsions before her return. It Avas this 
Avhich had made Pamela the most em- 
barrassed of all AA'aiting-maids. During 
the first half-hour Meg had affected the 
bravado of laughing, of singing, of say- 
ing that a clothes-press Avas a very de- 
lightful place, and that she found herself 
Avonderfully happy in hers; after this, 
perceiving the Avant of air, a fear of sti- 
I fling had taken possession of her, and she 
I had vainly tried to force open the door. 


MISS ROYEL. 


11 


Then, callin" Pamela, she had begged for 
the key of tlie press ; and, Pamela having 
ill her turn implored Meg to have a little 
patience, Meg had now insulted her, 
now threatened her, and at last she had be- 
gun to scream ; she was screaming still. 
It was difficult to conceive how" these 
youthful lungs could be capable of such 
prodigious efforts. 

Raymond asked the negress if she knew 
where the key of the press was. Pamela 
replied that she did ; but she represented 
to him how dangerous it would be to trifle 
with Lady Rovel by opening a door Lady 
Rovel had closed, in fact, to go counter to 
xjady Rovel in the least of her whims, 
which were as sacred as the law and the 
prophets. Raymond cut short her re- 
monstrances by ordering her to bring the 
key. She handed it to him trembling, 
and he at once opened the door. Pale, 
dishevelled, Meg with one bound left her 
prison, and darted into the middle of the 
room, fixing her glowing eyes upon her 
liberator, ready to fly into his face like a 
young cat, which, with distended claws, 
confounds friends and foes, and seeks 
some one upon whom to vent its rage for 
injury. 

Her movement had been so brusque, 
her attitude was so threatening, that good 
Mile. Ferray could not repress a gesture 
of affright. She withdrew precipitately 
toward the door, covering her eyes with 
her hand, as if to place them beyond the 
reach of harm. Her terror seemed to 
amuse Meg, whose rage immediately gave 
place to an access of boisterous, almost 
convulsive hilarity, which was succeeded 
by a half-swoon. She would have fallen 
rigid upon the floor, if Mile. Ferray had 
not received her in her arms, and, seating 
her in a chair, made her inhale from a 
vial of salts. Meg speedily recovered her 
senses. The first use she made of them 
was to regard Raymond attentively and 
with a frown. He began to reproach 
himself for the foolish impulse of com- 
miseration which had led him to render a 
service to his enemy. His countenance 
was so expressive that Meg without diffi- 
culty divined what was passing in his 
mind. 

“Wliat a comical air you have!” she 
said to him, going off into a new burst 
of laughter. “ You repent of your good 
action ! What troubles me is that a kind- 
ness places one under obligation, and I 
see myself condemned to steal no more 
of your peaches.” 

‘‘You can ask us for them,” said Mile. 
Ferray. 

“Ask! ask!” returned she with awry 
face. “It is so much nicer to help one’s 
self!” 

During this interlude, the negress had 
prudently kept at a distance; now, seeing 
lier young mistress restored to a more pa- 


cific disposition, she approached, and 
with much circumlocution insinuated to 
Meg, that, as she had taken in a sufficient 
quantity of fresh air, it only remained to 
her to re-enter the clothes-press with the 
best grace possible, so that, when that 
terrible mamma returned, she might find 
her daughter where she had left her. 
Meg considered the proposition entirely 
out of place. “Don’t you know, Pame- 
la,” she said, “that mamma has so 
many ideas in her head that she 'often 
gets confused in her reckoning ? I would 
wager that at this moment she has a 
vague recollection of having put some 
one into a clothes-press, and if upon her 
return she finds some one there she will 
be content. Do me the favor to put 
yourself in my place, and all will be 
well.” 

Pamela, who little relished this substi- 
tution, maintained that Lady Rovel, 
despite the abundance of her ideas, had a 
fearful exactness of memory, and that 
such devotion on her own part would be 
of no avail. “ Lord Jesus ! what shall we 
say to my lady?” cried she in a tragic 
tone, stealing a glance at herself in her 
little pocket-mirror, — a sweet exercise 
which she practised in the midst even of 
the gravest' pre-occupations. Mile. Fer- 
ray ended this debate by declaring that 
she took all upon herself, that she as- 
sumed all responsibility, that she charged 
herself with all explanations; in brief, 
that she was confident of obtaining Meg’s 
pardon. “Accompany us to The Hermit- 
age, my dear child,” she said. “ I will 
bring you home very soon ; and, if your 
mother absolutely wishes to punish some 
one, it is I who will pass the night in the 
clothes-press.” 

“Agreed! I like that!” cried Meg, 
familiarlyTlacing her arm around Mile. 
Ferray ’s waist; “but swear to me, that, 
when I am at your house, monsieur 
your brother shall not eat me.” 

Mile. Ferray made a warning gesture 
with her finger. She would not allow 
any one to speak lightly of the good God 
or of Monsieur Raymond Ferray. Then 
she whispered in Meg’s ear, “Re-assure 
yourself: his eyes are larger than his 
’mouth.” And, as soon as Meg had put 
on her hat, she led her to The Hermit- 
age. Along the way she asked her many 
questions, accompanied with many ca- 
resses, which Meg received with an absent 
air, like a princess who knows her birth 
and her merit, and who flatters herself 
that she has a right to every kindness 
and attention. 

Mile. Ferray had this trait rare among 
persons unkindly dealt Avith by nature: 
she adored beauty wherever she found 
it, — in a pretty woman, as well as in a 
pretty plant. Beauty is harmony; and 
Mile. Ferray had a good, beautiful soul, 


12 


MISS ROVEL. 


which felt a need of believing that all is 
harmonious in this world; that it has 
been created by a grand musician ; that 
he who has made the stars march on 
their course, and the earth revolve to the 
strains of a divine lyre, will pennit dis- 
sonances only to prepare and heighten 
the effect of the grand final accord. If 
Mile. Ferray had possessed a metaphys- 
ical head, she would have gone through a 
long course of reasoning to convince her- 
self that the apparent disorders of nature 
and of life only contribute to the univer- 
sal order. A rose in its freshness, and 
the charm of a youthful smile, absolved 
her from reasoning. In contemplating 
them, she held it proven that the musi- 
cian exists; she believed she heard the 
harpings of the divine lyre, and existence 
became a delight to her. Such was the 
creed of Mile. Ferray. Perhaps it would 
appear insufficient to rigid consciences 
and to dogmatic minds ; but, in this mat- 
ter of dogma, each takes that which suits 
him : each, as the Princess Palatine said, 
makes for himself a little religion apart 
from himself, and it is the height of im- 
pertinence for one to attempt to impose 
his own religion upon others. To Mile. 
Ferray it seemed, that, of all proofs of the 
existence of a God, Meg was the most 
convincing. She admired the contours of 
her face which Lawrence would have 
sighed to paint; her large, beaming eyes, 
the vibrations of her life-inhaling nostrils, 
the blonde hair floating loosely over her 
shoulders, the clearness and frankness of 
her glance, her full, melodious voice, like 
the song of the blackbird in the forest. 
She could not withdraw her eyes from 
this young creature ; and she said to her- 
self, “ If I could be allowed to rear this 
little girl, her soul should one day be 
beautiful as her face.” • 

On her part, Meg felt inclined to re- 
ceive Mile. Ferray into her friendship. 
Nothing is more egotistic than the friend- 
ship of children, and nothing is more 
clairvoyant than their egotism. They 
very soon learn to feel the'pulse of those 
around them, and know what they can 
expect. Their young and ardent minds 
see in us older people, whatever we are, 
only obstacles or playthings. Meg had 
not gone fifty steps by Mile. Ferray’ s 
side, w'hen she said to herself, “ This dear 
demoiselle is a good, simple creature, 
with wdiom I can do whatever I like. 
She is one of those nice people who 
allow you to abuse her.” And one of 
the great pleasures of children is to 
abuse. 

All at once she cried out, “ There 
comes the enemy ! ” She had just per- 
ceived her mother mounted on a white 
nag, and escorted as usual by a brilliant 
. staff of all nations. Lady Rovel was ad- 
vancing toward her daughter. She had a 


j piercing glance ; and, recognizing Meg 
from a distance, she was struck wuth 
astonishment. She soon recollected that 
she possessed a clothes-press and a daugh- 
ter, and that, upon leaving for her ride, 
she had shut up this daughter in the 
clothes-press. How had she got out ? 
was the all-important question. Meg hid 
as best she could behind her new friend, 
who continued to advance with the in- 
trepidity of those short-sighted mortals 
who are not aware of danger until they 
have thrust their noses into it. An in- 
stant after, she hit her head against the 
muzzle of a white mare which blocked 
up the way. A voice cried out to her, 
“ If I am not too impertinent, mademoi- 
selle, I would like to ask where you are 
taking my daughter.” 

The sharpness of this voice made Mile, 
Ferray tremble ; but charity is not easily 
disconcerted. She fixed her little twink- 
ling eyes upon Lady Rovel, and, declaring 
that Meg’s cries had touched her heart, 
begged the 'mother to excuse her' auda- 
cious interference. “ I shall not restore 
to you this lovely child, madame,” she 
added in her most caressing voice, “until 
you have promised to pardon us both for 
all we have done.” 

Lady Rovel had at first listened with a 
severe air; but an idea occurred to her: 
she had a great many of them, as Meg 
said. She all at once discovered that 
Mile. Ferray was the providential solu- 
tion of a little problem which had been 
perplexing her for an hour past; and it 
was with a benevolent smile that she 
said, “You have a tender heart, made- 
moiselle.” 

“ It is a reproach they often cast upon 
me, madame.” 

“ And you love children ? ” 

“ Passionately.” 

“ As well as your roses ? 

“Far more, if possible.” 

“I am charmed,” cried Lady Rovel: 
then, giving rein to her nag, she pliuited 
herself opposite Raymond, who had re- 
mained immovable a hundred paces to the 
rear. Since morning he had been re- 
volving in his head the translation of a 
thorny passage in the Be Berum Natura. 
He had just found two lines that pleased 
him, and, for fear of lettipg them escape, 
had stopped to write them in his note- 
book. 

“ Have I dreamed, monsieur,” said 
Lady Rovel to him, “that you came to 
my house this morning, moved by a noble 
rage, to declare to me that my daughter, 
Miss Rovel, is a monster ? ” 

“ If those are not my words, they are 
exactly what I meant,” he replied coldly, 
his nose stuck in his tablets. 

“ I believe also that you implored me 
I to inflict upon her a punishment worthy 
i of her faults.” 


MISS ROVEL. 


13 


“ That is true, madame.” 

“ Who has set the bird at liberty? ” 

“ It was I, madame, but not because I 
wished her the least good. Mademoiselle 
your daughter has an insupportable 
fashion of crying ; and I implore you in 
future not to leave her in the depths of a 
buffet, and then forget her.” 

‘^Yes or no, monsieur: did you not 
this morning declare to me in the most 
decisive tone, that the collier is master in 
his own house ? ” 

“ I think I remember saying so, 
madame.” 

“ My daughter and my clothes-presses, 
are they not my own ? ” 

“Assuredly, madame.” 

“ Monsieur, is it not the first duty of a 
man who respects himself, to have a little 
consecutiveness in his ideas?” 

“la long time ago renounced that 
duty, madame. In a world of fools, woe 
to him who prides himself upon being 
always reasonable!” And he began to 
write again. 

“ This man,” cried Lady Rovel in Eng- 
lish, “ is the most insupportable of all the 
cold-blooded animals ! ” 

“ That signifies, madame, que je suis le 
plus insupportable de tons les animaux h 
sangfroid. You keep forgetting that I 
know foreign languages.” 

“Meg!” cried Lady Rovel, from an 
unapproachable height, “ I permit you to 
accompany Monsieur Ferray home. Try 
to profit by his conversation, which is as 
instructive as agreeable.” 

At these words she rode away on the 
gallop, her staff following, and soon all 
disappeared in a whirlwind of dust. 
Meg, who during this conversation had 
kept herself close to Mile. Ferray’ s skirts, 
now took that good lady’s hand, and at 
her side started for The Hermitage. 
“ Dear mademoiselle, give me your hos- 
pitality for two hours,” she said. “It 
takes just that time for mamma to forget 
her anger.” 

Children propose, and God disposes. 
Meg, an hour later, was engaged in help- 
ing Mile. Ferray arrange her borders, and 
was taking great delight in this occupa- 
tion which was new to her, when a dray 
loaded with two or three trunks entered 
the court. It was preceded by th6 
negress. She held in her hand a letter 
which she delivered to Mile. Ferray. 
The letter, an infernal scrawl, with seem- 
ing fly-tracks from top to bottom, con- 
tained these words ; — 

“ Mademoiselle, it has been proposed 
to me to leave this very evening for the 
Engadine, the weather being propitious, 
and to attempt the ascension of the Ber- 
nina and some other peaks, which I am 
assured no other woman has ever scaled 
or ever will scale, especially at this sea- 


son. Meg is a great hinderance to this 
lovely project. Children are like bag- 
gage in the army; on the day of battle 
it is well for the soldier to have only a 
haversack upon his back. You will 
agree with me that I cannot take Meg to 
the summit of the Bernina. If I fall 
into a precipice, I wish to fall alone. It 
has appeared to me that you feel some 
friendship for her, and I have no doubt 
that you will consent to keep her with 
you until my return. I am truly happy 
in being able to confide her to your kind 
care. It has also appeared to me as if 
monsieur your brother must interest 
himself very much in the education of 
children. He has complained that I rear 
my daughter ill. I shall be very grateful 
to him if he will deign to retouch my 
work ; and I am sure that Meg will profit 
vastly in the society of a man so distin- 
guished, although in my opinion he is 
somewhat wanting in consecutiveness of 
ideas ; but no one is expected to be per- 
fect. I wish it to be understood that you 
have the right to impose upon me any 
conditions you choose; I subscribe to 
them in advance, and upon my return 
we will arrange all to your liking. My 
absence will probably be for a fortnight, 
perhaps longer, for I wish to deceive no 
one ; and I may as well confess to you, 
that some years ago, having left Paris at 
precisely eight o’clock in the morning to 
pass the afternoon at Fontainebleau, I 
pressed on to Madrid, whence I did not 
return for a year. As it is necessary to 
be prepared for all, precipices and ava- 
lanches, if any accident happens to me 
upon the Bernina, have the kindness to 
write to the Hon. Sir John Rovel, Gov- 
ernor-General of Barbadoes and other of 
the Lesser Antilles. He will inform you 
what you are to do with Meg. 

“ Your very grateful 

“ Lady Aubora Rovel.” 

There were a great many parentheses 
in the letters of Lady Rovel. There were 
also v6ry many in her mind and in her 
conduct ; and, to tell the truth, parentheses 
pleased her more than any thing else in 
the world. She began with them, she 
ended with them, and then she resumed 
her phrase or her project as if nothing at 
all had happened. And she did well to 
reckon upon future contingencies; not 
that there was any fear of accident to her 
in her mountain ascensions. She had a 
sure foot, and a head proof against all 
vertigoes ; but then she might happen to 
meet upon the summit of Bernina that 
ideal man, and, upon descending, might 
depart with him for St. Petersburg or 
Constantinople. 

As Mile. Ferray read the letter, her 
face glowed with pleasure. Never had she 
believed more devoutly in Providence, 


14 


jnss ROVEL. 


that divinity she loved everywhere to re- 
cognize, with whom she held incessant 
converse^, who sometimes made her await 
his responses, but who always spoke at 
last. Since the single hour .she had 
known Meg^ she had said a hundred times 
in ])etto, “ O Providence, -without thy 
interposition, what will become of this 
blonde with the black eyes? O Provi- 
dence, might it only be thy will to give 
her to me ! I should have the pleasure 
of gazing at her, the still greater pleasure 
of educating her ; it would be a sweet oc- 
cupation for me, and, for her, safety and 
happiness.” “I will grant thy wish,” 
Providence had just said to her, this time 
giving a most speedy answer. 

Mile. Ferray caressed Meg on both 
cheeks. She reached her the letter, im- 
ploring her to read it in her turn. Meg 
read it twice; she grew pale, was seized 
-with a nervous trembling, and taking up 
her straw hat, with which she had decked 
a vine-prop, she set out at full speed to seek 
the mother whom she loved, whom she 
admired even far more than she feared. 
Pamela had great trouble in overtaking 
her. She explained to the child all that 
had been arranged, that three-quarters of 
an hour must have sufficed Lady Rovel 
to do her packing, pay her servants’ 
w'ages, put them out at the door, close 
the house, and settle every thing. Meg 
tore her hair : she was inconsolable. All 
of a sudden an idea crossed her mind. 
“ If I remain with you,” she said to Mile. 
Ferray, “will you allow me to wear long 
dresses? ” 

Mile. Ferray pledged her most sacred 
word that she would allow it, assuring 
Meg that one of the dresses should have 
a train. Meg remained for a moment 
pensive, her nose in the air, gazing at the 
clouds ; she doubtless saw there a long 
skirt en train, such an one as she had 
often envied her mother for possessing. 
The heavens which she interrogated de- 
clared to her that actually the greatest 
felicity of this world is to w^ear long 
dresses. She exclaimed excitedly^ “ In 
that case it is another affair!” And all 
at once she dried her tears, resumed her 
gayety and her watering-pot, holding 
which in her hand, she hopped on one 
foot twice around the border. 

It was not enough for Mile. Ferray to 
have quieted Meg: she hastened to find 
her lord and master, and recount the in- 
cident to him. Certain of encountering 
a storm, she hauled in all her sails ; and 
it was with an abashed air, with a face 
an ell long, that she .entered Raymond’s 
study, warning him by this sort of pre- 
amble that she had come to announce the 
most painful, the most deplorable, the 
most ominous tidings. He might well 
have believed that his banker had fled, that 
The Heimitage was about to be swal- 


lowed up in an earthquake. After having 
left time to allow all possible disasters to 
pass in review before his mind, she pre- 
sented him Lady Rovel’ s letter. Despite 
all this skilful preparation, Raymond 
drew himself up to a formidable height. 
“Ah, ha!” cried he, “the plot is ad- 
mirable, and here is a jest, comic enough I 
Do they take my house for a foundling 
hospital ? Let this young miss be sent to 
her mother immediately!” 

Mile. Ferray replied that such had been 
her first thought, but that Lady Rovel 
had gone, and no one knew what road 
she had taken. 

“ There is one thing more certain yet,” 
replied he, striking his fist upon the table : 
“ it is that this silly, ill-mannered child 
shall not remain here an hour longer. 
Let them go back to browse at La Prairie, 
she and her negress ! ” 

Mile. Ferray alleged that this had been 
her second thought, but that Lady Rovel 
had taken care to close the house, and 
carry off the keys. 

“May the Devil carry her off herself! 
My dear, put on your bonnet as quickly 
as possible, and conduct this Meg iuto 
the first boarding-school you find.” 

“That is a most admirable idea!” ex- 
claimed Mile. Ferray. She hastened to 
the door : then turning around, she said, 
“My dear brother, we must take all 
things into consideration. If we put this 
reprobate young lass into a boarding- 
school, we remain responsible for her; 
and if, as I do not doubt, she should 
escape some fine morning, it would be 
our duty to run after her. Do you not 
think it would be better to keep her here ? 
In a fortnight her mother will come to 
take her home.” 

“ In a fortnight — in fourteen days or in 
fourteen months, or in fourteen years,” 
replied he furiously. “ What reliance can 
you place upon a whirligig like her? And 
who knows whether this triple fool has not 
judged it the proper thing to make us a 
present of the girl for life? Order a car- 
riage for me without further delay: I 
shall very well know how to find this 
tender mother, even though she is at the 
summit of the Bernina, and to restore her 
property to her.” 

“ But wait until you know whether it 
is to the Bernina that she intends to go,” 
replied Mile. Ferray gently. “She must 
have wished to place us upon the wrong 
track. You have judged her rightlv, 
Raymond. She is a triple fool, and it is 
possible that in a few hours she will have 
embarked for China. I really fear that 
you would incommode yourself to no pur- 
pose, that you would lose your trouble 
and your steps.” 

“Very well, I renounce the idea of 
going in pursuit of her ; but her daughter 
shall pass the night in the open air. 


MISS HOVEL. 


15 


Could you in any event, Agatha, have the 
effrontery to ask me to adopt this abom- 
inable child ? ” 

“What an enormity!” replied she. 
“How can you believe — But, now I 
think of it, she has a father, this poor 
little girl, and it is his duty to dispose of 
her. Let us write to him. The trouble 
is that he lives a great way off; but at 
last, in a few weeks, we shall have his 
answer, and a few weeks will soon pass.” 

After having decried this proposition, 
after having stormed most delightfully, 
finding nothing better, and upon the for- 
mal assurances which were given him by 
his sister, that, during her short sojourn 
at The Hermitage, Meg should be exclu- 
sively under her care, that she would 
conceal her under her skirts, that he 
should never hear her spoken of, all 
ended by his resigning himself, fuming 
with rage, to her suggestion. In order 
to lose no time, seizing a pen, he wrote 
then and there to the governor of the 
Little Antilles, that he had had the good 
fortune to find his daughter in a clothes- 
press, and implored him to be so kind as 
to inform him, as soon as possible, whether 
he should put her back there, or embrace 
the first opportunity of forwarding her to 
Barbadoes. While he was writing. Mile. 
Ferray cried with a doleful air, “What 
an ennui! What an embarrassment! 
WIio could have foreseen this annoy- 
ance? How I repent having brought 
this child here ! ” 

The letter being written, she took it to 
send it to the post. As soon as she had 
closed the door, her face grew cheerful. 
Something said to her that the governors 
of the English Antilles had too much 
business on their hands, to be in a hurry 
about replying to letters which only 
concerned a daughter. Through the 
keyhole she sent back a lingering kiss of 
gratitude to her brother. Mile. Ferray 
possessed in a supreme degree the gift 
of vague hopes, which consists in hoping 
something without knowing what. It 
seemed to her that this child, who had 
just fallen upon them from heaven, , 
would play a fortunate.ro/e in their lives, 
that perhaps she would be the cause of 
.her brother’s renouncing his hatred of 
women, that she would reconcile him to 
happiness, to life, to glory, and to Arabic. 
How would this be brought about ? As to 
that she knew nothing, and it disquieted 
her little. It is for Providence to find 
the how : that was the mission of Provi- 
dence in this world. 


III. 

Mlle. Ferray had taken upon herself 
no easy task ; but she had the obstinate 
patience of sweet and loving souls, and, 


like her late brother, that is to say like 
the Raymond of old, she undertook only 
difficult work. Meg was a skittish colt, 
ready to rear at a word or a gesture. 
The good Agatha undertook to subdue 
gradually this rebellious will, and to 
gently insinuate herself into the heart 
whose confidence and friendship she 
sought to win. She succeeded so well, 
that, in a little time, Meg came to her to 
confess all the preposterous things she 
had done, and all that she meditated; 
for, to prevent her doing such things, 
would have been as impossible as to im- 
prison the moon in a well. 

In order to obtain some slight conces- 
sions, Mlle. Ferray exacted but very 
little. It was her constant aim and her 
greatest anxiety to conceal from her 
brother Meg’s peccadilloes and pranks, 
which would have caused him many 
exclamations of rage. He never sus- 
pected that one day this incorrigible 
child had plucked the most beautiful of 
his apples to bombard the passers-by, 
who had replied with a hail of stones. 
Barefoot, her hair flying in the wind, 
Meg had remained mistress of the battle- 
field : but the engagement had been 
severe, as the glass knocked out of the 
greenhouse bore witness. Raymond was 
equally ignorant of the fact that his 
sister had found Miss Rovel perched 
upon the summit of the hay-loft, where 
she was quietly smoking a cigarette. If 
Meg had set the house on fire, it would 
have been difficult to keep that calamity 
secret; but it is very sure that Mile. 
Ferray would either have found some 
means of imputing the accident to her- 
self, or that, in accordance with her usual 
formula, she would have exclaimed, 
“ When one reflects upon it, all is ex- 
plained ; and, if the poor little girl prom- 
ises not to do it again, we must forgive 
her.” 

But she could not conceal every thing 
from Raymond. He more than once sur- 
prised Miss Meg devastating his kitchen 
garden, under the pretext, that, nothing 
being so stupid as cabbages, they deserve 
to have their heads knocked off; and one 
day he caught her tormenting his espe- 
cial pet, a beautiful Angora cat, and try- 
ing to attach a lantern to its tail. He 
was terribly enraged at the pretty mis- 
chief-doer; but Mile. Ferray came hob- 
bling along like the Prayers of Homer, 
celestial advocates, which, limping, 
squinting, march on the steps of crime to 
repair its ravages, and avert the anger of 
the gods. 

Mile. Ferray conversed a great deal 
with Miss Rovel, and these conversations 
left upon the good lady a singular im- 
pression: they both charmed and horri- 
fied her. She was frightened at the 
many things which Meg did not know, 


16 


MISS ROVEL. 


and still more frightened at the many 
things she did know. Meg was grossly 
ignorant upon certain subjects, while 
upon others she possessed extraordinary 
knowledge, a science worthy of a doctor’s 
hat, which she had caught upon the wing 
in her mother’s salon. This young girl 
did not know how to knit or to embroid- 
er; she could neither hem a handker- 
chief, nor mark a napkin ; and she 
understood far better how to disarrange a 
wardrobe than to arrange one. In truth, 
she knew how to read, but she had read 
nothing; she knew how to write, but 
she had a deplorable hand. Her litera- 
ture was very limited, as well as her 
historical knowledge; she had heard 
vaguely of a Shakspeare who had com- 
posed a great many funny things, of a 
certain Charlemagne celebrated for the 
length of his beard, and of a man named 
Charles Stuart, king of England, who 
had had his head cut off. This last fact 
had seemed to interest her; she had 
sometimes thought of it in decapitating 
Raymond’s cabbages. She was as well 
versed in geography as in history. In 
all these matters, she retained a few facts 
which amply sufficed her: for example, 
she was very proud to know that Spain 
is much hotter than England, while the 
former of these countries is situated 
somewhere in the environs of Africa. 
Mile. Ferray having one day read “ Atha- 
lie ” to her, she found this comedy very 
interesting and very amusing. She even 
retained one line that had particularly 
impressed her, and often repeated that it 
is well 

“ De r6parer des aiis Tirreparable outrage.” 

In compensation for all she did not 
know, Meg knew that love is, according 
to the way one accepts it, the most agree- 
able of pleasures, or the most dangerous 
of passions. She explained very wisely 
to Mile. Ferray what is understood in 
France by the demi-monde, and that it is 
a patito in Italy. She affirmed that mar- 
riage is an institution of the past, that 
“ free unions ” is the phrase of the future. 
She had at her fingers’ ends a list of the 
friends of the heart of all the reigning 
sovereigns; and, when she recited this 
litany, one might have believed she was 
enumerating the saints of her calendar. 
She knew the scandalous adventures of 
the pairie as well as of the gentry, and 
the Chronicle gallant had no secrets for 
her. 

This astounding erudition very justly 
disquieted Mile. Ferray. But she soon 
discovered, that, in spite of appearances, 
Meg had remained very young, very 
childlike ; that she was very naive in her 
knowledge, that the adventures of Lord 
So-and-so and Duke Such-a-one were 


for her like the fantastic tales of an old 
wife’s library, which charmed her mem- 
ory without her drawing from them any 
conclusion directly applicable to Miss 
Rovel, who for the moment preferred 
throwing apples to passers-by to all other 
pleasures. She also discovered that Meg 
had a noble pride that led her to set her 
person at a very high price ; that there 
was a romantic turn to her imagination 
which protected her from vulgar tempta- 
tions; and that she had a vast deal of 
good sense, thanks to which this petite 
individual could see clearly into the wiles 
of great and little deceivers. 

“In default of better things,” said 
Mile. Ferray to herself, “a heart which 
has sufficient self-esteem to bestow itself 
only on condition that it is fully appre- 
ciated, an exacting imagination ambi- 
tious of putting some beauty into life, a 
mind just and courageous, resolved to be 
the dupe of nothing or nobody, are three 
railings capable of preserving from more 
than one fall.” Without contradiction, 
principles only are reliable ; but, if Lady 
Rovel would only grant her fifteen 
months. Mile. Ferray felt confident she 
could instil these principles into Meg’s 
mind, although the idea appeared as chi- 
merical as to make gourds grow upon a 
rock destitute of vegetable earth. 

She tried to do this, never preaching 
morality to Meg, listening with both ears 
to all her stories, appearing scandalized 
at nothing, contenting herself with in- 
sinuating, that, from one point of view, 
all things can be justified; that the es- 
sential thing is to well know what one 
wishes, and to accept in advance the 
consequences of one’s actions, for the 
reason that every decisive action has its 
inevitable consequences, and, once en- 
tered into, it is no longer we who control 
our life : it is that act that controls us. 
All the paths leading to happiness or 
unhappiness, she said, start from the 
same intersecting point. It is well to 
reflect a long time before making one’s 
choice, for these paths which at first 
seem contiguous, become so divergent 
that it is impossible, upon repenting our 
choice, to turn from one to the other. 
In vain we find that we have been de- 
ceived : we must go on to the goal of our 
error and of our misfortune. 

Happily, added she, to prevent our 
making a precipitate choice, kind Nature 
has placed at the starting-point a magic 
fountain environed by delicious shades, 
under which it is sweet to rest. The 
water of this fountain insures to him 
who drinks it charming dreams, a joy- 
ous intoxication; he believes that he 
perceives in himself something stronger 
than destiny, more happy than happiness 
itself; so that, absorbed in the enjoy- 
ment of this life-dream, he does not 


MISS EOVEL. 


17 


hurry on to grasp another. '5his foun- 
tain is youth ; and Mile. Ferray exhorted 
Meg to remain young a long time, be- 
cause youth is the only thing of which 
one never repents. Meg had delight 
enough in this wisdom and in this foun- 
tain; but she little realized this, although 
she tried to make Mile. Ferray believe 
that her conversation and reflections 
might leave some decisive impressions 
upon her refractory nature. 

If Meg talked a great deal with Mile. 
Ferray, she exchanged at the most three 
words a day with Raymond, whom she 
seldom saw except at meal-time. Ray- 
mond took no pains to conceal his re- 
sentment at Miss Rover s installation 
into his house, or the impatience with 
which he awaited the moment of de- 
spatching her to the Antilles. From day 
to day, his liking for her grew less ; anil 
he often repeated to his sister that this 
little girl was a perverse child, who need- 
ed to be governed with the utmost se- 
verity. To tell the truth, Meg did noth- 
ing to please him. She saw in him a 
gentleman very morose, and somewhat 
mysterious, who overawed her in spite of 
herself. The instinctive antipathy with 
which he had inspired her changed, ere 
long, to a well-grounded aversion, the 
results of which we shall see. 

Mile. Ferray had flattered herself, that, 
by reciting to Meg her allegory of the 
enchanted fountain, she should persuade 
her to wear short presses a while longer. 
But the allegory had produced no such 
sovereign effect. Every day Meg re- 
minded Mile. Ferray of her promise: 
she became so urgent that it had to be 
fulfilled. Mile. Ferray conducted her 
X)rote^jee to Geneva, and took her to a 
fashionable shop ; where, after long dis- 
cussion, they chose a grayish-rose silk, 
with which Meg decided to content her- 
self, although she would have preferred 
a more showy color. Thence she was 
transported to the best dressmaker of the 
town, with whom they discussed for a 
long time the great question of the fash- 
ionable styles of cutting and trimming. 
Meg expected her first long dress to be a 
chef-d’oeuvre. She at last entered into 
possession of this treasure. The next 
morning she rose at dawn, and passed 
several hours in trailing her new attire 
up and down the room, going, coming, 
making her skirts spread out, proud of 
her gimps and laces, and giving herself a 
wry neck in contemplating the train. 
She sighed for the breakfast hour. As 
soon as the bell rang, she rushed precipi- 
tately to the dining-room, which she 
crossed with her nose in the air, her 
waist wriggling, her arms swinging, her 
head tossing. Raymond, who had just 
entered by another door, stopped short to 
gaze at her, and with a shrug of the 

2 


shoulders said to his sister, “Are you 
mad, Agatha, to bundle up that little 
girl in this absurd way?” This ill- 
sounding exclamation seemed to Meg the 
most downright impertinence. But she 
succeeded in keeping silence, and in 
smiling loftily like a person who hears a 
silly thing uttered, and disdains to reply. 
From this day she meditated profoundly 
upon.means of proving to Monsieur Fer- 
ray that he was a senseless gosling, and 
that, since Miss Rovel wore long dresses, 
it was due to her that the whole universe 
should take it seriously. Fortune, which 
is often the obliging accomplice of little 
girls, furnished her the occasion she 
sought. 

Meg often promenaded in the environs 
of The hlermitage, accompanied by 
Pamela. While Meg sought for hazel- 
nuts, and cracked them with her beauti- 
ful teeth, the negress would let her 
melancholy glances wander far over the 
fields, indulging at intervals in the 
amorous cooings of the turtle-dove, or iii 
profound sighs which were a petition to 
destiny. Although she had a flat nose, 
Pamela had long ago decided that she 
was a treasure unrecognized by the 
world. This pearl was impatiently wait- 
ing the connoisseur who should render it 
justice. Perhaps it might one day spar- 
kle on the finger of a prince; for Pamela, 
having seen more than one prince at the 
disposal of Lady Rovel, had persuaded 
herself that princes are a common article 
of merchandise, and that, sooner or 
latei , she should have hers. The imagi- 
nation of this romantic negress denied 
itself nothing. 

Meg’s favorite walk was a narrow, 
shady path, where more nuts grew than 
elsewhere: it bordered upon a ravine 
which descended precipitately to the 
Arne. Arrived upon the borders of the 
ravine, Meg would indulge in some very 
hazardous gambols, taking pleasure in 
frightening Pamela by her temerity. 
When she had tired of this, they would 
return to the house. One day, turning 
her head, she perceived a stranger some 
fifty steps behind her. She stopped to 
gaze at him: he also paused, seemingly 
to look for a pin in the grass. She re- 
sumed her walk: he followed. Arrived 
at the end of the path, she turned 
around: the stranger leaned against a 
tree, and was waiting for her to pass. 
He was a small, middle-aged man, 
frightfully lean; his pinched neck was 
encircled by a sky-blue cravat ; his fingers 
were covered with rings; his eyebrows, 
hair, and moustache were dyed : he had 
a ferret-like nose, with the dull eyes of a 
dead fish suddenly galvanized into life. 
At the moment when Meg passed him, 
he threw upon her the glance of a faun 
on the watch for a nymph. Seeing that 


18 


MISS ROYEL. 


his dilated pupils spoke too much, he ex- 
tinguished them as one blows out a 
candle,, and greeted Meg with the pater- 
nal kindness of a graybeard who loves 
children. 

The next day Miss Rovel had not been 
ten minutes in this path, when the un- 
known appeared, and resumed tlie 7'6le 
of yesterday : it was the same upon the 
next day. The fourth day Meg, who 
began to be perplexed, and who was not 
the girl to repose upon her curiosity, 
adroitly managed to drop her fan in the 
grass, thus furnishing the stranger the 
l)retext for which he had watched. A 
moment after, he had approached, and, 
bowing to the ground, presented her the 
fan. 

“May I know your name, beautiful 
young lady?” he asked with a smile that 
was like a grimace. 

Meg drew herse'f up with great dignity. 
“Monsieur,” she replied haughtily, “I 
am not in the habit of revealing my 
name to people who have not told me 
theirs.” 

“ I am called the Marquis de Boisge- 
net,” stammered the old beau. “ And 
I,” replied Meg, christening herself with 
the first name that came into her head. 
“I am called Miss Marvellous.” Where- 
upon, as he pressed her with questions, 
she explained to him, that for more 
than a month her mother had dwelt in a 
cleft of the Bernina, that she herself had 
been placed to board at a house they 
v'.alled The Hermitage, and which was 
about as dull as the crevice of a moun- 
tain; that they treated her severely be- 
cause she was possessed of a very lively 
disposition. She added, moreover, that 
in front of this house there was an or- 
chard; that at the foot of this orchard 
there was a brook where she sometimes 
angled for craw-fish; but, the weather 
now being severe, she found in this brook 
fewer craw-fish than pebbles. Monsieur 
de Boisgenet hung upon her lips ; he did 
not lose a word ; he liked to be informed. 

Then he implored Meg to allow him to 
walk a few steps with her; and, lowering 
his voice, he declared, that, the first time 
he had seen her, her beauty had possessed 
an inexpressible attraction for him; he 
had been, as it were, bewitched by it, and 
had been roaming up and down the en- 
trance of the path in the hope of finding 
her there again. He averred that this 
path was his paradise, and that Meg was 
his angel, — one of those angels of whom 
one dares demand nothing but permission 
to adore them upon his knees. 

Meg, who had not as yet perceived 
wings or pinions sprouting beneath her 
armpits, replied to this ethereal declara- 
tion by one of those loud bursts of a 
little girl’s laughter, which have the 
effrontery and the shrillness of a cock’s 


crow. This laugh somewhat vexed the 
amorous graybeard. He dropped his 
metaphors, and implored Meg to make 
him a present of that naughty paper fan 
he had just handed back to her. “It 
would be for me a priceless jewel,” he 
said; “and you will permit me to offer 
you another in exchange.” 

“ An angelic fan ? ” asked she, elevating 
her chin. “Bring it along; my heart 
will appreciate it.” 

And, attempting to imitate a Juno- 
like movement of the head v/hich often 
served her mother to break off an interview 
too much prolonged, she took leave of 
M. de Boisgenet, who had the discretion 
not to follow her. 

The numerous adorers of Lady Rovel 
had sometimes offered Meg bonbons and 
dolls. None of them had ever seemed 
to doubt that she was an angel ; none 
had failed to admire her black eyes and 
her blonde hair. Treated until now as a 
child, she had for the first time become 
the object of a declaration. It was an 
event in her life. Such are the miracles 
wrought by long dresses ! Returning 
with rapid pace to The Hermitage, she 
said to herself, “What would you think 
of this adventure. Monsieur Raymond 
Ferray ? Ah ! truly it seems to me that 
this little girl bundled up in so absurd a 
fashion makes people fall in love with 
her without having even to lift her 
finger!” 

She walked so rapidly that the negress 
could not follow her. Pamela, mean- 
time, was curious to know what had 
passed between her young mistress and 
the stranger. She had listened without 
understanding a word, as M. de Bois- 
genet spoke veiy low; and, when he 
spoke loud, she understood no better, 
because she knew only English. 

“Do not walk so fast, mademoiselle,” 
she said to Meg. “ One would think we 
had the Devil at our heels.” 

“It is the Devil, very likely, or one of 
his imps,” replied Meg. 

“ He, mademoiselle ! He has so polite 
an air, this gentleman; so amiable, so 
gallant!” 

“He pleases you, then, Pamela?” 

“ He has very grand manners. Maj^be 
he is a prince.” 

“Don’t be so absurd; he is only a 
marquis.” 

“ And I would like to know ” — 

“ Oh, don’t ask me.” 

“ What is there to tell, mademoiselle ? ” 
asked Pamela in a reproachful tone. 
“ Until to-day, you have had no secrets 
from me.” 

“ In truth, I don’t know as I ought to 
tell you. I am placed in a very delicate 
position, Pamela,” she added with an 
important and solemn air. “Really, I 
•have some scruples in regard to deliver- 


MISS HOVEL. 


19 


ing the message the Marquis de Boisge- 
net has sent you through me.” 

“ For me!” cooed the negress, bridling 
up with self-importance. 

“Yes, for you. As he does not know 
English, he implored me to say to you 
that he is desperately enamoured of your 
charms ; that they are robbing him of his 
appetite and of the little hair yet remain- 
ing to him. He asked me how he should 
manage to persuade you of his love. I 
told him that you had a poetic soul, en- 
tirely detached from the things of this 
world; that you floated in ethereal 
regions; that you despised gold, silver, 
and jewels.” 

“ You need not have gone so far, made- 
moiselle,” interrupted the negress excit- 
edly; “ a pretty jewel never did anybody 
harm.” 

“ That is also his opinion,” replied 
Meg; “ and to-morrow he will offer you, 
through me, a little present which he 
says is worthy of an angel ; for you are 
his angel. It seems that there are black 
angels.” 

“Why not? Color has nothing to do 
with such things; here is a proof of 
that,” replied Pamela a little piqued. 

Meg said no more; she left Pamela to 
her reflections, in which that day and the 
following night she indulged, oblivious 
of all around her. The next day Pamela 
had a moment of disquietude, when, 
arriving at the well-known path,^ she 
did not perceive the marquis. However, 
just as with Meg she had reached the 
crest of the ravine, she recognized the 
laggard coming towards them as fast as 
his little legs could bring him. Meg 
made a sign to her credulous soubrette to 
withdraw to a little distance, and received 
M. de Boisgenet with a very grand air. 
He hastened to present her a charming 
case, which contained a very beautiful 
mother-of-pearl fan mounted in ivory, 
and garnished with brilliants. Meg un- 
folded it, and said, “It is really in very 
good taste. The angel accepts it.” 

“ But there was to be an exchange,” 
murmured M. de Boisgenet in his most 
flute-like voice. 

“ I forgot my paper fan, and left it at 
home,” she replied. “And, even if I 
held it in my hand, you should not have 
it.” 

“ Ah, cruel girl ! ” cried he ; “ is it thus 
you amuse yourself with promises ? ” 

“ Ask something else of me. What 
can one do to be agreeable to you? ” 

“What can one do?” stammered the 
marquis. “Dare I tell you the dream I 
had last night, — the dream which has 
haunted, possessed me, all day?” 

“Oh, tell it!” replied she. “If your 
dream does not please me, I shall not 
listen to it.” 

“I dreamed that I was walking, one 


evening, alone with you, in this path 
here by moonlight. To tell you what 
intoxication took possession of my 
soul ” — He broke off here to explain 
to her that he adored the moon ; that to 
contemplate it with a beloved woman 
was, in his eyes, the most ineffable of 
felicities. 

“ I do not love the moon so much as 
all that,” replied she with disdainful 
lips. “Monsieur Ferray was the other 
day explaining to his sister that the 
moon is a dead region, so dead that it no 
longer knows how to turn on its own axis ; 
and that nothing is stirring there, — an 
old carcass of a world. He is a great 
pedant. Monsieur Ferray, and the pedants 
murder poetry ; but then, since you think 
so much of it ” — 

“ Oh that I had a throne 1 ” interrupted 
he. “ I would give it without regret to 
realize my dream.” 

“So be it,” replied she. “ If you will 
be, when the moon rises to-night, at the 
iron gate before The Hermitage, I will 
try to join you there, and you shall ex- 
plain the moon to me.” 

M. de Boisgenet was seized with such 
a transport of delight, that he would 
have fallen at Meg’s knees; but she be- 
thought herself of a certain gesture with 
which her mother cut off the thread of 
her discourse to an indiscreet person who 
forgot himself. She copied it so exactly, 
M. de Boisgenet repressed his enthusiasm, 
and allowed himself to depart with only 
these words, “ O my angel, this even- 
ing!” 

During the interview, he had thrown 
more than one unquiet glance upon Pa- 
mela, whose presence annoyed him some- 
what. Pamela had thought that she read 
in these glances the sweet madness of 
an enamoured heart, and had replied by 
modestly lowering her eyes. But yet the 
transport of the marquis had not escaped 
her, and she could not avoid saying to 
Meg, “ It seems to me, mademoiselle, 
that M. de Boisgenet was very affectionate 
with you.” 

“ He wanted to embrace me,” replied 
Meg, “ because, after he had for a long 
time entreated me, I consented to speak to 
you in his favor. Listen, Pamela,” con- 
tinued she in a dogmatic tone, “ this is 
the last time I shall intrude in this affair. 
You are old enough to know how to con- 
duct yourself. Do not ask advice of me : 
I shall not give it.” And, presenting the 
fan, she added, “ Here is a pretty gew- 
gaw, which the poor man preseftts you 
with his homage, and on condition that 
this evening you walk with him an hour 
by moonlight, for he has a pronounced 
weakness for the moon. I advise you to 
be prudent and wary. I could cite you 
numerous examples of women of humble 
estate who, by judiciously managing their 


MISS ROVEL. 


20 

lovers, have succeeded in rnarryiiii; them I 
at last. ISIadame la Marchioness Pamela [ 
de Roisgenet, — it seems to me that 
sounds well.” 

“I thank you for your good advice,” 
replied Pamela with a touch of hauteur ; 
“ but I believe I know how to take care 
of myself.” 

And for five minutes she played with 
the fan, which she thrust dexterously 
into her pocket on arriving at The Her- 
mitage. 

The moon in its fullest radiance rose 
above the mountains. Meg extinguished 
her lamp, drew back the curtain, half 
opened the shutter, and leaned out of the 
window, her elbows resting on the sill. 
She was sure of seeing and of not being 
seen. She soon discerned a shadow flit- 
ting up and down before the gate. The 
clock of the neighboring village had just 
struck ten. when, to her lively satisfaction, 
the youthful watcher heard the creaking 
of a door opened with great precaution, 
and a second phantom appeared. It 
traversed the court, and passed along the 
fence. Meg could scarce refrain from a 
burst of laughter. She represented to 
herself the scene about to be enacted, the 
despair, the anger of M. de Boisgenet 
when, in place of the angel of light he 
expected, he should find himself in the 
presence of a negress with a flat nose. 
Poor Pamela was going to be ill received, 
and hastily dismissed. Meg promised 
herself a great many jests upon this mis- 
adventure, and much sport in toasting 
Pamela as the Marquise de Boisgenet. 

Pamela, finding the front gate locked, 
had reached a small private gate fast- 
ened by a bolt. She shoved back the bolt, 
and a moment after was outside the yard, 
gazing around for her Romeo. She was 
not doomed to wait. He advanced hasti- 
ly and with open arms. All of a sudden 
he recoiled, and said in French, “Was 
Miss Marvellous prevented from com- 
ing?” 

Pamela cooed in English, “ She has 
told me all : I had pity on your suffer- 
ings.” 

“ Will she come, or will she not come ? ” 
he resumed excitedly. 

“ I compromise for your sake an unsul- 
lied character,” cooed Pamela anew. “ I 
dare believe that you will respect it.” 

M. de Boisgenet happened to know 
some English words, and it was in this 
language that he exclaimed, “What 
means this substitution? Would she 
make sport of me?” 

Both remained for an instant speech- 
less, seeking to recover from their mutual 
astonishment. But the denoument was 
not quite what Meg had expected. Si- 
lence is often more eloquent than speech. 
After a pause of some seconds, the mar- 
quis again approached Pamela, and they 


I talked in a voice so low that not a word 
I reached Meg. • Then the two shadows 
began to move, and soon vanished in the 
distance. 

No words could express Miss Rovel’s 
consternation. She could scarce believe 
her eyes. Despite her profound knowl- 
edge of the things of this world, she was 
utterly confounded. She passed the re- 
mainder of the night hovering between 
an almost irrepressible desire to give way 
to the laughter that trembled on her lips, 
and the dumb resentment that raged in 
her heart. It seemed to her, that, during 
these last few moments, she had come to 
learn a great deal of the human heart; 
her newly acquired science at the same 
time amused and angered her. She 
thought of Mile. Ferray’s allegories, and 
was obliged to confess to herself, that, in- 
stead of playing jokes upon old marquises, 
young girls would do better to drink at 
that magic fountain which mirrors 
heaven and earth, investing all with the 
graces of enchantment. She could iiot 
lie down; she awaited Pamela, eager for 
her return. But her curiosity was not to 
be gratified. Pamela did not return. 

The next day Mile. Ferray, astonished 
at the disappearance of the negress, asked 
what had become of her. Meg feigned 
ignorance. 

“I suppose,” said Mile. Ferray, “that 
the girl was ennuyed here, and has gone 
elsewhere to seek her fortune. I am de- 
lighted; I can have no regrets at your 
loss of her society.” 

“ The girl is lacking neither in wit nor 
in savoir faire,’’' replied Meg. Then she 
started off on the run to finish her angling 
for craw-fish in the brook. Her fishing 
was so successful that long hours passed 
without her thinking of M. de Boisgenet 
or of his philosophy ; but the next day her 
curiosity returned. She said to herself 
that Geneva was not a large city, that in 
an hour, at most, one could make the tour 
of it ; and that there at some street cor- 
ner she might meet a pair of high, soot- 
colored cheek-bones. 

Raymond had a horse which served two 
purposes ; as a carriage-horse for his sis- 
ter, and a saddle-horse for himself. After 
breakfast when he had entered his study, 
and Mile. Ferray had retired to her 
chamber for a siesta, Meg furtively 
donned her riding-habit, and, descending 
to the stable, with her own hands she 
saddled and bridled the horse, unobserved 
by any one. A quarter of an hour’s rid- 
ing at full speed brought her to the gates 
of Geneva. She galloped over the whole 
town, and was so occupied in her search 
that she did not perceive the curious 
glances cast upon her by all she met. 
Every one was astonished to see this 
beautiful blonde riding alone without 
groom or chaperon. Her investigations 


MISS ROYEL. 


21 


ended in nothing; no Pamela was to be 
found. The hours were passing, and she 
was forced to set out on her return to The 
Hermitage without any satisfaction of 
her curiosity. 

She was only half a kilometre from the 
house, when she heard the gallop* of a 
horse behind her. She turned her head, 
and recognized M. de Boisgenet mounted 
upon a Moorish roan. With one hand he 
gave her a menacing gesture, with the 
other he flung her a kiss ; then he put 
spurs to his horse so as to reach her. 
She did not try to escape him; and, two 
seconds after, he had caught up with her. 
“ Ah, you little rogue,” he cried, “you 
shall pay me for this ! ” And, so saying, 
he extended his left arm to clasp her 
around the waist. She quickly disen- 
gaged herself ; and, before he could be on 
his guard, with a vigorous blow of her 
riding-whip she sent his hat bounding 
down the dusty road. Surprise for a mo- 
ment held him spellbound; then mad- 
dened with resentment or love, without 
really knowing what he was about, he 
hurried in pursuit of the fugitive. 

Far better mounted than she, he was 
rapidly gaining upon her, when a pedes- 
trian who had witnessed the scene darted 
from behind a hedge. Seizing the Moor- 
ish roan by the bridle, he stopped him in 
his mad career. M. de Boisgenet or- 
dered the intruder to let go his hold, and 
brandished his riding-whip ; but, with his 
right hand, the intruder seized him 
around the waist. It seemed to the little 
man that the hand that held him was of 
iron. He was not deceived; that hand 
plucked him from his saddle as if he had 
been a flower ; and a moment after, with- 
out knowing how, he found himself seat- 
ed on a mile-post, while his horse galloped 
away. 

Give me your card, monsieur,” he 
cried, clinching his fists. 

“ Here it is, sir,” replied, with a sar- 
donic smile, the pedestrian, who was no 
other than Raymond. 

“You will hear from me in a few hours 
from now,” resumed Monsieur de Bois- 
genet. So saying, he withdrew, turning 
to transfix Raymond with a glance which 
portended death or something very like 
it. 

At Raymond’s approach, Meg had 
stopped in her flight. She had seen all and 
comprehended all. The pedant, M. Fer- 
ray, had all at once become transfigured 
before her eyes into a hero of romance, in- 
to a paladin. She was in a transport of 
admiration at his prowess, the vigor of his 
arm, at his marvellous sangfroid. She had 
been vividly impressed by the lightnings 
that flashed from his eyes when he had 
darted upon M. de Boisgenet, and also by 
the contemptuous smile with which he 
had greeted the little man after having 


seated him on the top of the mile-post. 
In short, he had appeared to her to ad- 
mirable advantage in this encounter. 
She had allowed herself to slide from her 
saddle to the ground ; and, when Raymond 
joined her, he led her horse by the bridle, 
and she walked along by her liberator’s 
side. 

“ Monsieur,” said she to him in a 
trembling voice, “ this man has threat- 
ened to send his seconds to you.” 

“ That is true, mademoiselle.” 

“ And will you fight each other? ” 

“Why not?” replied Raymond calmly. 

“Ido not wish it!” cried Meg. “I 
will not allow it!” and she burst out 
sobbing. 

If Raymond had just astonished Miss 
Rovel, at this moment Miss Rovel aston- 
ished Raymond. He gazed at her, his 
great eyes wide open from wonder, and 
these eyes had an unwonted, an almost 
kindly expression. He had just discov- 
ered that Meg possessed something re- 
sembling a heart, and he pitied her 
distress. 

“ Calm yourself. Miss Rovel,” he said 
in a rather mild voice. 

“ I want to tell you all,” said she, dry- 
ing her eyes ; and thereupon she gave an 
exact detail of what had passed between 
her and M. de Boisgenet. Then she 
added, “ If I have been light-headed, it 
is I who must suffer the consequences ; 
if M. de Boisgenet absolutely wishes to 
fight, he must fight with me. Do not 
think I am afraid of a sword-thrust : I as- 
sure you that I do not fear it at all.” 

Raymond smiled. “I very much 
doubt,” said he, “if M. de Boisgenet 
would accept a duel on these conditions. 
But dismiss this subject, I pray you,” 
added he with a grave air : “ I have a com- 
munication to make to you to which I 
invite your most serious attention. It 
seems clear to me. Miss Rovel, that your 
mother has abandoned you.” 

“Abandoned me! Do you call this 
abandoning me ? ” cried Meg impetuous- 
ly, and gazing at him with flaming eyes. 
Her glance said, “How can you declare, 
that, in confiding me to your protection 
and that of your sister, my mother has 
abandoned me? ” 

“ However that may be,” replied he, “I 
wrote six weeks ago to your father, ask- 
ing him what I should do with you. I 
have just received his reply.” He drew 
from his pocket a letter, only the last 
lines of which he read to Meg. The 
whole letter was as follows : — 

“Sir John Rovel, governor and com- 
mander-in-chief of Barbadoes, has the 
honor to testifying to M. Ferray his sympa- 
thy for the trouble Lady Rovel has caused 
him in confiding to his care, without pre- 
vious arrangement, the education of her 


22 


MISS ROVEL. 


(laughter, a child who, in truth, it will not 
be easy to educate. 

“ On the other hand, it would be very 
inconvenient to Sir John Rovel to have 
Ferray despatch Meg to the Antilles. 
When Sir John Kovel separated from the 
amiable Lady Kovel, he kept with him 
their son William, and authorized Lady 
Kovel to take the daughter with her 
to Europe. Moreover, Sir John Kovel 
is not so assured of being Meg’s father as 
to be very desirous for her return ; and it 
is a principle of his, to avoid, as much as 
possible, all disagreeable impressions. 
But still he feels it his duty to provide 
for the girl’s future. He has therefore 
deposited with Messrs. Barker & Co., 
bankers, in London, a sum of twelve 
thousand pounds sterling, which, princi- 
l)al and interest, will serve for Meg’s 
dowry when she marries, and which is 
all she can expect from him. 

“ Until she marries, in case Lady Rovel 
does not come back to claim her. Sir John 
Kovel implores M. Ferray to consider 
himself Meg’s guardian; and, if it is not 
convenient to have her remain in his 
house, he requests him to place her in 
such a boarding-school as pleases him, 
and to charge to the account of Barker 
& Co. all the expenses of her mainte- 
nance. 

“ Sir John Kovel eagerly embraces this 
opportunity of expressing to M. Ferray 
sentiments of the most perfect esteem, 
aTid implores him to inform him of the 
suitor to whom he will resign Miss Meg, 
and who has his approbation in ad- 
vance.” 

“You see. Miss Rovel,” added Ray- 
mond, after having finished his reading, 

that your father wishes me to marry you 
to some one. Your dowry, although not 
enormous, makes you a very desirable 
match.” 

Meg interrupted him with a gesture 
which would fain have said, “Look at my 
eyes and my hair: it seems to me that 
these are jvorth a little more than my 
dowry.” Raymond affected not to under- 
stand. “ Have you any bridegroom in 
view?” asked he. 

“ Mamma,” replied Meg as gravely as 
he, “has often said before me, that mar- 
riage is a folly which love only can excuse. 
When I love, perhaps I shall marry.” 

“Very well, mademoiselle. In this 
case, please let me know what boarding- 
school you desire to enter.” 

“Ah, monsieur! will you drive me 
away from you ? ” she replied passionate- 
ly, and her eyes filled with tears. 

Raymond saw that she was all ready to 
break out into sobs. He pitied her. 
“ Miss Rovel,” said he, “a person whom 
I tenderly love has dedicated to you an 
ardent affection, which, 1 must confess. 


has seemed to me most unfortunately 
bestowed. In consideration for her, I 
consent to keep you a while longer in my 
house; but it is on condition, that in 
future you listen somewhat less to your 
fantasies, that in all things you take the 
advice of my sister, and that you care- 
fully shun compromising the repose and 
dignity of my house by your thoughtless- 
ness.” 

Without leaving her time to reply, 
Raymond bowed to her, and went to his 
own room. Scarce had he left, when, 
like a bomb, Meg precipitated herself 
into Mile. Ferray’ s apartments, to pour 
forth her heart on that tender bosom. 
Her pathetic recital caused the good 
Agatha some tears. She knew that of all 
men her brother would be the least dis- 
posed to yield a foot’s breadth in order to 
shun an unpleasantness or a danger. 
Still she considered that M. de Boisgenet 
could scarcely demand satisfaction from 
a guardian for having protected his ward 
against him, and that the ludicrousness 
of his adventure would prevent his wish- 
ing to push the affair further. 

While chiding her young friend, she 
endeavored to re-assure her, but only half 
succeeded. ^ Meg could not sleep that 
night. She passed the next day in mor- 
tal terror. Whenever she heard the door- 
bell ring, she grew pale, expecting to see 
the seconds of M. de Boisgenet appear. 
Happily, they did not appear that day, 
nor the day following. Meg was so re- 
assured and so happy that she would 
gladly have fallen upon Raymond’s neck; 
but this was not a thing to attempt. 
Nevertheless she must satisfy her heart ; 
and, as she crossed the garden, she im- 
pressed an ardent kiss upon a great pear- 
tree which has never comprehended the 
reason why. 

That evening, upon retiring, a regret 
came to her. She began to think, that, if 
the duel had taken place, it would have 
been glorious to her. People might have 
said, that at scarce sixteen years of age, 
and in her first long dress, two men ha(i 
sought to cut each other’s throats for her 
beautiful eyes. It was understood, that 
was a self-evident fact, that Raymond 
would come safe and sound out of the 
engagement. And yet if Jie had received 
the merest slash, even the simplest 
scratch, what would the world have 
thought of Miss Rovel, and her brilliant 
fashion of making her debut in the great 
world ? And who knows if there would 
not have resulted from this — what then? 
Here Miss Meg’s imagination became a 
little confused. It seemed to her that 
this scratch might have had the most 
momentous consequences for her; but 
she went to sleep before arriving at the 
end of her story, which was very compli- 
cated. 


MISS ROVEL. 


23 


IV. 

Her adventure with M. de Boisgenet, 
and the very peremptory warning she had 
received from M. Raymond Ferray, had 
proved a good lesson for ISfiss Rovel. 
She grew cautious, she formed a habit of 
reflecting a little, and for some time her 
conduct as well as her language was irre- 
proachable. But one day she forgot her- 
self. Pamela suddenly re-appeared at The 
Hermitage. This negress possessed the 
effrontery of those unconscious beings 
who know not what they do, and still 
less what they have done ; she hoped to 
find pardon, and to be re-established in 
her office of waiting-maid. Raymond 
overwhelmed her with astonishment in 
begging her to leave as soon as possible. 
She alleged that Lady Rovel had confided 
the care of her daughter to her, that it 
was her duty to remain with Miss Meg. 
Meg, who perhaps felt some remorse on 
her part, ventured to plead Pamela’s 
cause, and she plead with considerable 
warmth. 

“ Very well, Miss Rovel,” said Ray- 
mond with an icy air; “ this girl will not 
remain here a minute longer, but you are 
free to accompany her.” 

These words sufficed to silence Meg. 
The idea of leaving The Hermitage froze 
her heart. It would have been very hard 
for her to separate from Mile. Ferray; 
perhaps it would have cost her more to 
leave Raymond. This pedant, in whom 
she believed she had discovered a paiadin, 
had thrown a charm over her. In spite 
of his rudeness, his coldness, his disdain, 
he had a mysterious attraction for her 
youthful imagination. She studied him 
secretly as one searches into an interest- 
ing problem. When she had nothing 
better to do, she said to herself, “What 
sort of a man is this, now? ” 

One November day after breakfast, 
Raymond had shut himself up in the 
library with his sister. He had just 
finished the translation of Book IV. 
of De Rerum Natura, and was reciting 
some passages to Mile. Ferray, his natu- 
ral auditor. Among them were that elo- 
quent arraignment of passion, that vivid 
description of the bitternesses which love 
conceals, of the remorse and chagrin 
that accompany it, of the incurable 
jealousy of the accepted lover who be- 
lieves that he reads in an abstracted 
glance the reveries of a faithless or 
divided soul, and surprises upon the 
treacherous lips traces of a smile which 
is not for him. “ One cannot too well 
veil his heart,” concludes the poet; “for 
it is easier not to love at all than to cease 
to love, and to break the ties with which 
Venus has bound us.” 

Borne onward by the torrent of his 
recitation, Raymond did not perceive 


that Miss Rovel had glided clandestinely 
into the bay-window of the library, 
where, holding her breath, she did not 
lose a word. When he had ended, 
thrusting her head between the two 
wings of the curtain, she cried thought- 
lessly, — 

“Monsieur Ferray, who, then, was this 
Lucretius who loved women so little? 
The Duke de B. understood them bet- 
ter than he. One day he addressed a 
letter to mamma in verse, where he com- 
pared the fools who revile love to those 
drinkers who, upon awaking in the morn- 
ing, abuse the bottle. One may be sure 
that in the evening they will be under 
the table. They were charming, — 
these verses of the Duke de B. I re- 
member only the four last lines, — 

“‘L’amour m’aura tou jours parmi ses parois- 
sieiis, 

Et je ne suis point erhumeur atrabiliare, 

La femme, a mon avis, est le premier des biens, 
Ou, si le bien est rare, un inal tres necessaire.’ ”* 

“ On the contrary. Miss Rovel, there is 
an evil which appears to me not at 
all necessary : it is a little girl who in- 
trudes to listen to what she has not at all 
been asked to hear, and to give her 
opinion at random, where no one has 
asked for it.” 

At these words, having put his manu- 
script back into his pocket, he angrily 
withdrew. 

Meg did not take offence at this insult : 
she perceived her fault, and with a con- 
trite air she listened to a lecture from 
Mile. Ferray, who demonstrated to her 
that she had missed a very good opportu- 
nity for being silent. 

“ It is the fault of Lucretius,” replied 
Meg, “ and of his impertinences which 
revolted me. It is droll: I had always 
believed that this Lucretius was a 
woman.” 

“My pretty dear,” replied Mile. Fer- 
ray, “ one is not permitted to confound a 
great Roman poet with the wife of Colla- 
tin ” — 

“ Who had an adventure so singular 
that she took it for high tragedy,” inter- 
rupted Meg; “but this matters little to 
me. I want to know why Monsieur Fer- 
ray detests women so much.” 

“Where have you learned, Meg, that 
my brother detests women?” 

“Oh, don’t tell me he does not! He 
doesn’t let an occasion escape him to de- 
clare that fact. You may be sure, that, if 
he cannot endure me, it is my sex that 
displeases him far more than my charac- 
ter. Good heavens I I do not say that I 

* “ Love will always have me among its parish- 
ioners ; 

I am not bom of an atra-bilious humor. 

Woman, in my opinion, is tlie lirst of blessings. 
Or, if the good are rare, a very necessary evil.’^ 


24 


M1S6 HOVEL. 


am perfect; but with all my faults, if I 
had the honor of being a boy, he could 
more easily endure me. Mademoiselle 
Agatha, do be good for just once, and tell 
me what it is that women must have 
done to Monsieur Ferray. You know 
that I adore stories.” 

Mile. Ferray, only after many entreaties, 
began the recital Meg demanded. She 
finally yielded to her supplications, be- 
cause it was hard for her never to speak 
to any one of that which held the first 
place in her heart. She told to Meg, 
under the seal of secrecy, of Raymond’s 
love-affair with Mme. de P., of Arabia, 
of Mecca, of the return to Paris. Meg 
listened with open mouth and eyes. 

“And so,” cried she, “because Mme. 
de P. has failed to keep her word with 
him, Monsieur Ferray has sworn to end 
his days in a hole. Do not gaze at me 
with such staring eyes, mademoiselle! 
It is a charming hole, I confess ; but any 
one who is acquainted with it will tell 
you it is a hole. Monsieur Ferray would 
have shown better sense in setting him- 
self deliberately about loving another 
woman. Mamma, who believes in ho- 
moeopathy, has often told me that one 
passion is cured only by another passion. 
I would give a great deal to know Mine, 
de P.” 

Mile. Ferray revealed to her that she 
had fraudulently gained possession of a 
miniature of Mme. de P. During his 
illness, Raymond had ordered her to 
burn it, and the letters also; but this 
miniature was so charming, that, un- 
known to her brother, she had done him 
the favor of keeping it. At Meg’s ear- 
nest entreaties, she consented to bring it 
to her. Meg examined the picture criti- 
cally, then sdie said, “ In truth, she is not 
very bad with her pretty, irregular face, 
and yet she is nothing remarkable. As 
mamma says, she is of that small beauty 
which has its full value only by candle- 
light. Great beauty is that which can do 
without all little precautions, that which 
gains by being seen in broad daylight.” 
And at these words she placed herself 
erect before Mile. Ferray, her face turned 
toward the setting sun, to which she 
seemed to say, “ I have no fear of you.” 
“Now, upon your word and honor,” 
added she, “who do you think the 
prettiest, — Madame de P. or I?” 

Mile. Ferray began to laugh. . “ Meg, 
give me back that picture at once,” she 
said; “you had best go and jump the 
rope.” 

This conversation had wrought a great 
impression upon Miss Rovel. I do not 
know what was her idea, as she did 
not impart it to any one ; but from that 
day she renounced all her mischievous 
pranks, and assumed a grave deportment, 
as much so, at least, as the vivacity of her 


disposition allowed. She spoke little, 
she was discreet in her questions, and 
was all her best friend could wish her to 
be. Another more remarkable change 
was that she became suddenly cui'ed of 
her horror of books. She borrowed from 
Mile. Ferray a manual of astronomy and a 
work upon physical geography, and passed 
her mornings in studying them. Siie 
found here many things she did not under- 
stand, many others which astonished her. 
She wrote down a list of her astonish- 
ments’ and one afternoon she went and 
knocked at Raymond’s door. lie was 
very much surprised to see her enter, and 
seat herself tranquilly near him, saying 
that a great many strange events w'ere 
taking place in the heavens and upon the 
earth, and that she hoped he would be 
kind enough to explain them to her. 
Without allowing herself to be intimi- 
dated by his ironical smiles, she implored 
him to tell her how one was really going 
to assure one’s self that light moves more 
than eighty thousand leagues a second ; 
she also imparted to him the extreme dif- 
ficulty she had always experienced in 
believing that the world was round, and 
that there were at the antipodes people 
who walked upon their heads. Raymond 
tried to jest with her, to put her off ; but 
by her air of respectful attention Meg 
constrained him to answer her inquiries, 
and the interview lasted almost half an 
hour. 

“I do not wish to trouble you longer 
to-day,”, she said, taking leave of him; 
“but would you be so very good as to 
allow me to come sometimes to question 
you? I am a goose or a ninny, just as 
you please, and I shall not be sorry to 
improve myself a little.” 

“ But what good can this do you. Miss 
Rovel?” he asked. “You have hand- 
some eyes, and a dowry of three hundred 
thousand francs ; with such advantages, a 
woman is released from all the cares of 
this world. Question the Duke de B.,who 
makes such pretty verses; you will see 
that he is of my opinion.” 

“ The Duke de B. is not here,” re- 
plied she, “ and I care little for his ob- 
servations. I have often heard mamma 
say, that a woman is an actress, who, in 
playing her role, must accommodate her- 
self to the taste of her public. My public 
is you : I know that you despise ignorant 
young girls ; and it is my desire that you 
despise me no more.” 

“ What interest can you have in pleas- 
ing me?” he replied smiling. “Since 
you love to quote your mother, know that 
she one day in four languages called me 
an ill-trained bear. I arn a boor. Miss 
Rovel, — one of those boors whose minds 
are all awry, one of that sort whom man 
nor woman no longer pleases.” 

“ This is the judgment I at fii-st passed 


MISS KOVEL. 


25 


upon you,” replied she ingenuously; 
“ but since I have seen you take a little 
monsieur by the waist, and deliberately 
set him on a curb-stone, my ideas in 
regard to you have changed. In short, I 
shall not be sorry, if, at a future day, 
you come to entertain some friendship 
for me.” 

“As to that. Miss Kovel,” answered 
Raymond, conducting her to the door of 
his study, “I dare not promise the fulfil- 
ment of your wish ; but be assured that I 
recognize your good intentions.” 

Whatever Meg wished, she wished very 
much; she had an indomitable tenacity 
of character. Braving the rebutfs and 
the mockeries of Raymond, through the 
strength and persistence of her entreaties, 
she won his consent to direct her reading. 
He gave her successively works upon 
science, travels, and histories, all of which 
she studied with great care ; then, as at 
first, she went and knocked at his study- 
door, asking to talk with him. He at 
first received her ungraciously enough, 
like a man who feels disturbed and an- 
noyed; but, little by little, he began to 
enjoy her visits and her questions. She 
had a clear and limpid intelligence; her 
ignorance resembled those mountain- 
lakes which, with marvellous precision, 
reflect their shores, the sky, and the» shift- 
ing forms of the clouds. We can detest 
the world, and still take some pleasure in 
seeing it reflected in that wonderful mir- 
ror we call a woman’s mind, when she 
has a well-formed mind, whose trans- 
parency has not been dimmed by preju- 
dice or vanity. When Raymond received 
her ill, Meg said to him without being in 
the least disconcerted, “ I see, monsieur, 
that you are in an ill humor to-day. I 
will return to-morrow.” 

She deciphered his face at the first 
glance. If he was out of humor, she 
was reserved in her discourse, or even 
succeeded in keeping silence for entire 
hours ; if he was well disposed, she gave 
loose rein to her tongue, and amused 
him by her audacity or her candor. He 
for some time resisted the charm that 
was leading him on ; but he had soon to 
admit that Meg’s society had become 
agreeable to him ; that he loved to occupy 
himself with her, that she helped him fill 
the void of time. Hitherto, gardening 
had been his favorite amusement. At 
the end of a few weeks, his rosebushes 
and his orchard seemed less interesting 
than the beautiful human plant whose 
education chance had confided to his 
care. This wild scion, in laying claim to 
his good offices, said to him, “ Graft me: 
I wish you to find me to your inclination, 
and hope that one day you will take pleas- 
ure in my fruits.” 

To palliate his inconsistency, and to 
cover his defeat, Raymond fell into a 


habit of saying that Miss Rovel was only 
a little girl ; that, at her age, one has no 
sex. He had secretly decided, that, upon 
the day when he should see the child giv- 
ing place to the woman, he would abjure 
her society; but he did not wish to do so 
immediately. Meg was careful to re- 
assure him in this respect. If she had 
renounced her frolicsome pranks, she 
had at the same time abandoned all her 
pretensions. She made no more parade 
of her precocious worldly science; she 
abstained from citing the apothegms of 
her mother, and the versicles of the 
Duke de B. She indulged in no fur- 
ther dissertations upon love and upon 
mankind in general. This came perhaps 
from the fact that young girls speak little 
of love when they begin to love, and 
occupy themselves less with the world 
when their hearts first speak. The bird’s 
song which, breaking the silence, an- 
nounces to them the advent of the Mes- 
siah, holds them under its charm ; and the 
pleasure of listening gives them a dis- 
taste for the pleasure of speaking. And 
all this while, Meg so much loved sugar- 
plums, barberries, and sour apples, to 
play at ninepins, to fish, to jump the 
rope, that Raymond might well be per- 
mitted to doubt the fact that she had in 
her head a romance of which he was the 
hero. 

The winter was cold and snowy. To 
please Miss Rovel, Raymond purchased a 
sleigh. It was she who conducted it. 
They went at full speed, and were often 
upset. Raymond took these misadven- 
tures mildly. One day Meg, having fallen 
head-first into a drift, rose so powdered 
with snow, that Raymond was convulsed 
with merriment. Mile. Ferray, who was 
of the party, was inclined to throw her- 
self upon his neck ; it was the first time 
in two years that she had heard him 
laugh. He felt some mortification for 
this transport, and was morose for four 
and twenty hours. He had made a god 
of his chagrin; and he was indignant 
that the priest had dared laugh in his 
own church. 

During the long evenings of this long 
winter, instead of confining himself in 
his study to translate Lucretius, he de- 
scended to the parlor, and read aloud 
Homer, Plutarch, or some tragedy. Meg 
liked “ The Iliad ” far better than “ The 
Odyssey.” She found it very natural and 
very interesting that two peoples should 
fight ten years for the beautiful eyes of a 
coquette ; she had for a long time known 
that this is the foundation of all history. 
On the other hand, she had scarce per- 
suaded herself how a hardy adventurer 
could wantonly sacrifice Circe, Calypso, 
and the Sirens, to seek again his arid 
rocky domain, and the rather superannu- 
ated charms of his Penelope ; she allowed 


26 


MISS KOVEL. 


herself to believe, that, on this point, 
Homer had imposed upon his readers, 
riutarch left her cold; she reproached 
him with too much praise of great men 
who had not been handsome men. Trage- 
dies pleased her when they had a great 
deal of love and a great deal of blood- 
shed; but Corneille’s Romans appeared 
to her as brutal as improbable. Having 
learned to be silent, she kept her reflec- 
tions to herself, without at any time dis- 
simulating the pleasure she experienced 
in hearing any thing whatever, prose or 
verse, read by Raymond, who read with 
good taste. When women love some- 
thing, search wxll, and you will find that 
under that something they love some 
one. 

This rude winter was followed by a 
charming spring. To readings and sleigh- 
ing excursions, succeeded long prome- 
nades. They marched away in the morn- 
ing, and they went wherever they liked ; at 
noon they halted to lunch in some arbor. 
Often they took along their own provis- 
ions, and dined in some grassy meadow 
where there was shade and running wa- 
ter. Raymond did not like elevated 
places which command a grand view and 
a vast horizon: he preferred the deep 
valleys at the foot of a hill which im- 
prisons the glance. The hills have this 
one charm : they make you believe that 
here is the end of the world, that beyond 
there exists another very different from 
that we see, — a world where a divine har- 
mony reigns ; where all men are true, and 
all women faithful; where every question 
obtains its answer, and all devotion its 
recompense; where fortunes are assured, 
where happiness is eternal. Raymond 
sometimes forgot to contemplate the hill 
which hid the universe from him, to gaze 
at Meg, who was seated near him. Her 
face was a landscape which brightened 
every other, and which was animated by 
a perpetual play of lights and shadows. 
Now and then light, transparent clouds 
flitted over it, but through them broke 
ever the smile of a contented soul, to 
which the world was full of promise. 

At the close of one of these rural re- 
pasts, Meg, after a prolonged silence, all 
at once took it into her head to say, — 

“ Monsieur Ferray, is not the country 
we see here beautiful as Arabia? ” 

At this word, “ Arabia,” Raymond gave 
a start. Mile. Ferray glanced at him with 
anxious eyes, and then pulled at Meg’s 
dress to warn her that she had just com- 
mitted a serious imprudence. Meg did not 
heed the mute reprimand : she came and 
sat down by Raymond’s side, and began 
to crack almonds with a stone. 

While cracking almonds, she asked 
in a careless tone, “ Monsieur Ferray, 
are these hills like those in the environs 
of Mecca?” 


To Mile. Ferray’ s great surprise, Ray- 
mond, his face betraying not the slightest 
emotion, began to describe Mecca to Miss 
Rovel; from the holy places he conduct- 
ed her into the Yemen without seeming 
to remember that the country where the 
coffee-tree grows is also that whore ger- 
minate deceiving dreams and flowering 
hopes which bear no fruits. With the 
design of better explaining to her his 
travels, taking her dress for a map of 
Arabia, he ran his finger without per- 
ceiving it over the folds of her sleeve ; but 
Miss Rovel perceived it very well. 

The next morning, upon awaking, Meg 
believed she saw in her looking-glass the 
irregularly pretty face of Mine, de P. 
She gazed at this phantom laughing, as 
one regards a conquered and humiliated 
rival. “You have set me at defiance,” 
said she half-aloud ; “ but this man ought 
to be more difficult than that.” Then she 
darted out of bed, and, dressing herself, 
gambolled up and down the chamber. It 
seemed to her that she had just gained a 
wager ; that a battlefield had been won by 
her. Suddenly an idea occurred to her, 
and she discovered that she was not hap- 
py. It is in the character of women, es- 
pecially if they are not yet seventeen, to 
push their victories to extremes ; it some- 
times happens that they have cause to 
repent. 

When the breakfast-bell rang, Raymond 
and his sister, having gone down to the 
dining-room, did not find Meg, who ordi- 
narily preceded them. They sent a servant 
to search her chamber ; she was not there. 
Full of anxiety, they ran calling her in all 
directions. Meg did not reply. Think- 
ing she had gone to sleep in the hay-loft, 
which she sometimes visited. Mile. Fer- 
ray went to seek her there. Raymond 
crossed the orchard, and descended to the 
margin of the stream. A storm had 
swollen it: it rolled aloft its troubled, 
slimy waves. Arriving at a small inlet, 
where the water was deep enough for a 
grown person to lose footing. Raymond 
perceived Miss Rovel’ s broad-brimmed 
straw hat hanging over some reeds. A 
hollow cry escaped him; he plunged in 
precipitately, and with his two hands 
went to digging into the slime and rank 
grasses at the bottom. Regaining the sur- 
face to take breath, he heard a loud peal of 
laughter. He raised his eyes, and espied 
Meg perched amid the branches of an ash, 
where she had been entirely hidden from 
his view. 

“ What a diver and what a swimmer ! ” 
cried she, laughing, and thrusting forth 
her head. 

Two seconds sufficed for Raymond to 
leave the brook, and for Meg to let her- 
self down from the top of her tree. They 
found themselves face to face, and gazing 
into each other’s eyes. 


MISS ROVEL. 


27 


“ I beg your pardon, monsieur,” cried 
Meg, flushed with excitement. “ I was 
curious to know what sort of a face you 
would put on if you believed me dead.” 

At these words, she made a movement 
to grasp his hand ; but Raymond regarded 
her with an air so terrible, that she was 
frightened, and recoiled from him. He 
was furious, not for having taken a cold 
bath to no purpose, but on account of 
this impertinent fancy of Miss Rovel’s, 
and her presumption in imagining she 
had such power over his heart. In this 
little girl, he came to recognize the wo- 
man, that is to say, the tyrant, the ene- 
my ; to feel himself again menaced with 
that mysterious, fatal, and' insolent domi- 
nation which he had abjured forever. 
His first and very senseless proceeding 
was to tear off a scion of the ash, strip it 
of its leaves, and raise the improvised 
switch aloft in the air. Ashamed of such 
a transport of passion, he at length 
forced a smile to his lips. “ Miss Rovel,” 
said he quite calmly, “ little girls some- 
times do monstrously foolish things, 
which deserve the rod ; but favor must be 
shown them when they have the imper- 
tinence to wear long dresses.” 

With these words, he turned upon his 
heel. Meg had no strength to retain him, 
to follow him, or to answer him a single 
word. Immovable, petrified, she gazed 
after him with an air of consternation, just 
as Perette gazed upon the remains of the 
pot of milk. The event had with unpar- 
alleled cruelty deceived Miss Rovel’s ex- 
pectations; and what had just passed 
little resembled the beautiful romantic 
scene she had pl(*tted in all the candor of 
her soul. She had flattered herself that 
she should see a distracted man throwing 
himself at her feet, crying, “Ah! Miss 
Rovel, is it thus you sport with my heart! 
Do you not know that I adore you, and 
that I should be incapable of surviving 
you? ” 

The man had remained upright on his 
two feet, and had said to her with the 
tone of a schoolmaster, “ Miss Rovel, 
you deserve the rod, but I consent to 
show you favor.” 

What a disappointment ! What a mor- 
tification ! Suddenly changed into defeat, 
her victory had fled in disorder. 

Mine, de Sevigne said, that, when she 
had done a foolish thing, she sought no 
other excuse for it than that she had 
been drinking. Meg was not advised of 
this resource. She was beside herself 
with resentment. She decided that the 
outrage just inflicted upon her cried 
for vengeance, and that it should be 
avenged. She at first dreamed of drown- 
ing herself in earnest; but she made the 
very sensible reflection that this solution 
would be more disagreeable to herself 
than to M. Raymond Ferray, who would 


acquit himself by bearing the cost of 
her interment. It was he she wished 
to drown, and this project was not 
easy of execution. She promised herself 
to pillage his espaliers, to destroy his 
greenhouses, to poison his wells, to set 
fire to his hay-mow, even though the con- 
flagration should reach the house, and 
this odious man perish in the flames. 

With rage at her heart, she slowly 
passed up the orchard. Suddenly she 
heard upon the road the rolling of a car- 
riage which stopped before the gate. She 
was greatly astonished when she saw Pa- 
mela descend from it very modestly clad. 
The negress advanced toward her with a 
measured step, her head aloft, as belonged 
to innocence maliciously persecuted, and 
demanding justice from calumny. 

“Is that you, Pamela?” cried Meg. 
“ Where can you have come from?” 

“ From Lucerne,” replied she, — “ from 
madame your mother.” 

Pamela did not lie at all. After hav- 
ing been chased from The Hermitage, not 
knowing what to do with herself, and a 
little undeceived in regard to the marquis, 
she had concluded that the best thing re- 
maining for her to do was to set out in 
pursuit of Lady Rovel. She had a quick 
scent, and chance had favored her; so 
she had at last overtaken my lady at 
Lucerne. Lady Rovel had just returned 
from a six-months’ sojourn in a small 
German capital, where she had gone in 
the suite of a charming man, a petty 
prince, whom two thousand well-disci- 
plined men obeyed from a secular custom, 
and who, after pleasing her infinitely at 
first, had at length, for the sake of the 
proprieties, begun to neglect her some- 
what, and in consequence had become 
supremely displeasing to her. 

To console herself for this new dis- 
appointment, she had resolved to pass the 
summer at Lake Quatre-Cantons, in a 
villa, simple, and at the same time very 
luxurious. She was supposed to be seek- 
ing here solitude and tranquillity; but the 
solitude was ere long to become very 
populous, and the tranquillity much agi- 
tated. Meeting Pamela at Lucerne, the 
lady had very clearly remembered having 
left her daughter at Geneva among peo- 
ple whose name she had forgotten. As 
the negress approached her with some 
embarrassment, she at once concluded 
that her daughter was dead, this idea 
causing her a most dolorous shock. As 
soon as she became mistress of her 
nerves, she learned from Pamela that 
Miss Meg was still living, but that she 
was exceedingly unhappy at The Hermit- 
age, where they treated her very badly; 
that her faithful waiting-maid, having 
dared reproach Monsieur Ferray for his 
cruelty, had been pitilessly sent away. 

Lady Royel readily believed all these 


28 


MISS HOVEL. 


reports, indifference being easy to per- 
suade; but Lady Kovel’s indifference 
was of a very pas.sionate kind. She 
declared that she could not live without 
her daughter, that she must immediately 
gain possession of her, that she should 
go at once to seek her. As she was 
stepping into the carriage, they informed 
her that the weather wa.s propitious for 
an excursion upon the lake. To concili- 
tate all, she had despatched the negress 
with express orders to bring Meg within 
four and twenty hours. 

“ Wherever you go,” cried Meg, cling- 
ing to Pamela’s robe, “ were it to the 
Devil, were it to the Marquis de Bois- 
genet, I entreat you to take me with you. 
If I remain here three hours longer, I 
shall commit some crime.” 

“ Are you eiinuyM so much?” 

“To death.” 

“ Our wishes agree, mademoiselle. 
Lady Kovel sends me for you. I have 
given her to understand that you would 
end by growing coarse and ill-mannered 
among these petty bourrieoises.” 

“ Marchioness de Boi.sgenet, it is God 
who has sent you!” said Meg embracing 
her. 

Meantime, Kaymond, after having 
changed his clothes, related to his sister 
the beautiful device of Miss Kovel, and 
the plunge he had made in the brook. 
According to her custom. Mile. Ferray 
entered into his resentment, confessed 
that this little girl had unpardonable 
whims, adding that at the same time one 
ought to pardon them, because, in spite 
of her want of discretion, she had a 
great deal of heart. This was the mo- 
ment Meg chose for entering the parlor 
like a gust of wind. Her face beaming 
with joy, she exclaimed, “What a hap- 
piness, monsieur! Wliat a stroke of 
good fortune, mademoiselle ! Mamma 
wishes to see me again, and before sun- 
set I shall have left this dismal house 
forever.” Having said this, she ran to 
her chamber, where by one turn of her 
hand she emptied the drawers, and then 
threw all her clothes pell-mell into her 
trunks. 

Raymond darted a smile at his sister, 
“This will teach you, my dear,” said he, 
“ to be your own surety for a heart which 
does not exist.” 

Whether the heart existed, or not, it 
was with profound sorrow that Mile. 
Ferray learned the contents of the letter 
Pamela handed her. This letter was 
short. One line had sufficed Lady Kovel 
to thank Mons. and Mile. Ferray for the 
kind care they had given her daughter 
for nearly a year. A second line im- 
plored them to send back to her immedi- 
ately this adored daughter who was 
necessary to her happiness. Here there 
yawned a parenthesis, which very near- 


ly signified, “How much do I owe 
you?” 

“Declare on our part to your mis- 
tress,” said Raymond after having in his 
turn read the letter, “ declare to her that 
we shall be forever obliged to her, if to 
the day of our death we never hear men- 
tion made of her, of her charming 
daughter, nor of any thing which con- 
cerns the one or the other.” 

In less than an hour, Meg had packed 
and locked her trunks. While they were 
being strapped behind the carriage, she 
came, humming a song, down to the 
terrace where Raymond was smoking his 
cigar. Halting some steps from him, and 
throwing to the north and the south her 
by no means tender glances, she cried, 
“ Adieu, house, where, as the wise Pamela 
affirms, the mind and heart grow coarse ! 
Adieu, Homer, astronomy, and all the 
great men of Plutarch! Adieu, hay- 
loft, which I had sworn to burn ! Adieu, 
brook, whose craw-fishes were so dear to 
me that I wished to give them a man to 
eat! Adieu, temple of science and of 
ennui, where one cannot take a step, nor 
laugh, nor sing, nor open one’s mouth, 
nor move one’s eyelashes, without run- 
ning the risk of receiving a flogging ! ” 

As she ended her tirade, she perceived 
Mile. Ferray, who, standing erect upon 
the threshold of the house, fixed upon 
her, eyes full of tears and reproaches. 
She was moved. She darted toward the 
good lady, seized her by the waist, and 
kissed her forehead, murmuring in her 
ear, “ I love you very much. Miss 
Agatha ; but you see there are things you 
cannot comprehend, and which, besides, 
I cannot explain to you.” Then turning 
toward Raymond she said, “ Monsieur, 
your humble servant.” An instant after, 
she stepped into the carriage, and they 
drove away. 

“Why are you so sad, my good 
Agatha?” said Kaymond to his sfster. 
“ You ought to thank the kind Provi- 
dence that has relieved us of a precious 
embarrassmen t. ’ ’ 

In spite of all her brother could say to 
her. Mile. Ferray was the most afflicted 
person in the world. As soon as she was 
alone, she burst into tears. Notwith- 
standing all, she tenderly loved Miss 
Kovel, and one cannot remake one’s 
heart. She asked herself with terror 
what was to become of this child of 
whom she had fondly hoped to make a 
noble and virtuous woman. She wept 
Meg: she also wept a chimera she had 
been pleased to cradle in her heart. For 
some time she had more than ever ca- 
ressed the sweet thought that Miss Kovel 
had been sent them from heaven to di- 
vert her brother from his sombre misan- 
thropy, perhaps to cure him entirely. As 
her imagination travelled very quicldy 


MISS ROVEL. 


29 


and very far, she had begun to dream 
that under favorable conditions, circum- 
stances and the gods aiding, it might be 
brought about, it might happen perhaps, 
that Meg and Raymond — Alas ! Meg had 
gone, nothing more could happen. She 
remained for a long time before her win- 
dow, contemplating with humid eyes the 
prints left in the dust by the wheels of 
the carriage that had just borne away 
Meg and the most beautiful of her illu- 
sions. For the first time in her life. 
Mile. Ferray was inclined to quarrel with 
Providence, — that dear Providence who 
had now made her a bankrupt. 

While Mile. Ferray abandoned herself 
to unavailing sorrow, Raymond retired to 
his study. As if nothing had happened, 
he went to a shelf of his library to take 
down the “ De Rerum Natura.” The edi- 
tion he preferred above all others, and 
which he was in the habit of using, was 
Havercamp’s Lucretius, cum noHs varia- 
rum, a magnificent quarto volume mag- 
nificently bound. Scarce had he taken 
the precious volume in his hands, when 
he saw that it had been subjected to an 
inexpressible and irreparable insult. 
Here was a page Indignantly torn, or 
clawed rather, as if by the talons of a 
hobgoblin ; there was another page blotted 
with dabs of ink; here he found a leaf in 
tatters; further on, another torn out. 
Thirty were wanting in the middle of the 
volume, fifty at the end. It was a mas- 
sacre ! 

Raymond thought he must be dream- 
ing. He soon had ocular demonstration 
that this was no dream, but a frightful 
reality ; for, upon raising his eyes to the 
ceiling to call the celestial powers to wit- 
ness what had happened, he discovered 
over the pier-glass upon the mantle, a 
large inscription, written with a feverish 
hand. It was couched thus: “Mr. Ray- 
mond Ferray is a prodigious great book- 
worm : I hate him, and i shall be revenged 
on him.” 

The inscription was in English ; and, as 
Raymond knew English, he could not 
doubt that in good French the words 
meant this: “ J/. Baymond Ferroy est 
un prodigieux pedant ; je le hdis, et je me 
vengerai de lui.” 


Y. 

Raymond Ferray had promised him- 
self that at the end of three days he 
should have entirely forgotten the exist- 
ence of Miss Rovel; but he discovered, 
that, despite his apparent indifference, he 
was in a rage, and that rage does not 
'allow one to forget. It happened that he 
often brooded over the thought that for 
almost a year he had lodged under his 
roof a young girl, bizarre enough, who. 


having taken it into her head to please 
him, had seemed to prefer to any other 
amusement the pleasure of walking and 
chatting with him. He remembered that 
he, too, had acquired a taste for these chats 
and these promenades, that this young girl 
had become the most agreeable of his habi- 
tudes. And when a habitude has the 
long blonde hair, the blooming cheeks, 
the sparkling merriment of youth, it 
always costs a little to renounce it. 

Finally, he remembered that this same 
blonde had had the audacity to try upon 
him a very impertinent experiment ; that, 
furious at not having succeeded, she had 
departed hastily, with adieux little cour- 
teous, and after having massacred the 
most beautiful book in his library. He 
could not look upon what remained to 
him of his Havercamp’s Lucretius, Ley- 
den, 1725, without indignation against 
the shameless hands that had attacked 
his treasure. This great crime was in his 
opinion the mark of a villanous soul; 
and, as usually our chagrins are linked 
one with the other, closely as the leaves of 
a well- woven chaplet, the Havercamp had 
made him think of Mnie. de P. . . . He 
united in the same anathema all women, 
brunette or blonde, whether they were 
eighteen or thirty years old, as malevo- 
lent beings, whom a man with a heart 
should keep at a distance from his life 
and his thoughts. He would promise 
himself to-tlream no more of Miss Rovel, 
and he dreamed of her twenty times a 
day. In revenge, he would never speak 
of her, nor allow any one to mention her 
to him. Mile. Ferray was obliged to obey 
this edict, and to keep all her regrets to 
herself. 

Time did not diminish these regrets: 
every day she felt more and more the void 
Meg’s departure had left in her house. 
She execrated the dear ingrate, the heart 
that so easily severed its attachments; 
but there was tenderness in her maledic- 
tions. Nevertheless, as two entire months 
had rolled away, and Miss Rovel had not 
deigned to give her one sign of life, Mile. 
Ferray’s good sense obliged her to confess, 
that, if the girl had any heart, she had 
but very little. 

We need despair of nothing. One day 
when Mile. Ferray was embroidering in 
the parlor, face to face with her brother, 
who was absorbed in a treatise of Dar- 
win’s she questioned him as to his read- 
ing; and he explained to her the doctrine 
of the celebrated English naturalist, con- 
cerning the faculty living beings possess 
of insensibly adapting themselves to the 
surroundings in which nature or circum- 
stances have placed them. She had the 
habit of referring every thing to the im- 
mediate object of her thoughts, and so 
Darwin’s theory saddened her. She said 
to herself, that it was with souls as with 


30 


MISS ROVEL. 


plants and animals, — that the air they 
breatlie decides their destiny. And, if 
Providence had willed for Miss Rovel to 
grow up a virtuous woman, it would have 
left her at The Hermitage under the care 
of Mile. Agatha Ferray. She was pray- 
ing Heaven to graciously explain to her 
its mysterious designs, when her waiting- 
maid brought her a letter. Scarce had 
she glanced at it, when she flushed with 
emotion, and, slipping it into her pocket, 
she waited a moment when she might be 
alone, and read it. The letter was in 
these words : — 

Lucerne, Sept. 2. 

Dear Miss Agatha, — I wrote you 
almost a month ago to declare to you 
with humility and contrition, that I was 
ashamed, extremely ashamed, of having 
been so unamiable, so ungracious, so 
ill-bred in leaving you. As I passed 
through the parlor to take my letter 
to the post, I found mamma there talk- 
ing with a certain person. You have 
often repeated to me that young girls 
can gain as much instruction from con- 
versation as from books. But mamma 
said to this certain person that life is 
short, and there is no time worse em- 
ployed than the time we give to repent- 
ance. “I can very well believe that,” 
replied he,“ there remains to us so little 
time for sinning.” Did he wish to say 
pecker or pecker f* I do not really know, 
for he is very fond of fishing for trout in 
the lake ; but it may also be that he is a 
great sinner. The fact is, my letter ap- 
peared silly to me. I tore it in pieces; 
and that very day I fished up a trout with 
this person. He is an insipid blonde ; you 
know that is not my color. 

I should never have written to you, 
dear Miss Agatha, if I had not discovered 
that I cannot get along without tidings 
of you. I want them to-morrow. I wish. 
Miss Agatha, I wish — I wish to learn 
that you are still living, and that you 
cannot console yourself for my absence. 
If you make me this declaration in pretty 
style, I will tell you, as a recompense, 
that at moments I regret having torn, 
blotted, lacerated a certain book which a 
certain were-wolf loves like the apple of 
his ej^e. What could you expect? 
Heaven knows I was in a rage ; and, when 
one is in a rage, one tears, one blots, one 
lacerates. How he must detest me, this 
wolf-man ! I would wager that he weeps 
night and day for his dearly-loved old 
book. See how good I am. What a sym- 
pathetic heart I have ! I have implored 
mamma, who has long arms, to give 
orders to have another just such book 
hunted up for me; and you may well 
*PMier in French is to sin: packer, to fish; 
there being only a difference of accent between 
the two words. 


believe that I shall not keep it for myself. 
One must know how to deny one’s self 
for the sake of one’s friends. What I do 
in this matter is to satisfy my conscience, 
although it does not trouble me much : it 
is a good girl, and we have rarely. a high 
word with each other. And so you can 
without difficulty believe that conscience 
has not prevented my amusing myself 
royally at Lucerne. This pretty city has 
been invented for that. Mamma came 
here to seek solitude, and her salon is 
not empty. There is a constant throng 
of comers and goers, all well made, well 
cravated, well curled, scented with musk 
or benjamin; polite, gallant; deigning, 
the most of them, to pay some attention 
to Miss Rovel. They perceive that her 
eyes are not the eyes of the first person 
you meet, and not one of them has to this 
hour so much as thought of threatening 
her with the rod. I occupy myself with 
them on rainy days ; the rest of the time 
I row, or I swim, two jolly fashions of 
passing one’s time in this world. I be- 
lieve, in truth. Miss Agatha, that the 
perfect happiness consists in being a fish. 
This is not Pamela’s idea: she makes a 
laughing-stock of me; the poor girl has 
not yet entirely forgotten her marquis. 

But do you know what is most beau- 
tiful of all I have seen at Lucerne? 
It is mamma. In seeing her again, I 
was transported, dazzled, and I could 
not cease gazing at her. What eyes! 
What shoulders 1 What arms ! mine in 
comparison are real grasshopper’s claws. 
Good heavens I how amusing it must be 
to be beautiful as this adorable mamma ! 
If I adore her, she makes me a small re- 
turn. She pretends that I was horribly 
ennuyed at The Hermitage, that Monsieur 
Ferray could not endure me, that he sub- 
jected me to a thousand vexations, a thou- 
sand affronts. I am not so much cast 
down at this ; for, to compensate me for 
all I must have suffered there, she has 
promised, that during the next three 
months she will refuse me nothing, and 
will scold me for nothing. 

” If you wish to scold me, Miss Agatha, 
you have a free field ; but do not abuse 
the permission. A pretty wry mouth 
may have its charm, but grumbling al- 
ways makes the face ugly. Scold me 
then with grace and good humor. Es- 
pecially do not go and tell that were-wolf 
what I have written to you ; that villan- 
ous pedant Avill prevent you replying to 
me, and I wish to have news of you. As 
for news of him, give them to me, or do 
not give them ; it is all the same. Miss 
Agatha, Miss Agatha, after mamma and 
the fishes, you are surely the one I love 
best in the world. Your Meg. 

To this epistle, which she often re-pe- 
rused, not without an occcasional shake 


MISS EOVEL. 


31 


of the head, Mile. Ferray wrote a re- 
sponse full of affectionate reproaches, 
good advice, and wise counsel. A little 
after, she received a second letter. 

Lucerne, Sept. 23. 

You are then in life, mademoiselle? I 
am delighted of it ; but too many moral 
precepts. Miss Agatha, — rather too many 
moral precepts ! At ten fathoms depth, I 
lost bottom, dabbled about, and came 
near being drowned. To punish you I 
wish to recount to you two little histories, 
which no doubt will scandalize you very 
much. I have always loved to scandalize 
you ; when I used to speak to you of cer- 
tain things or of certain persons, you had 
a fashion of sniffing your nose, which 
delighted me. Are you listening to me, 
mademoiselle ? 

Day before yesterday, we all embarked 
for Gersau. Young and old, men and 
women, there were fifty of us, or it may 
be a few less. It was a birthday party, 
the Duke de B. gave to mamma. Im- 
agine the most beautiful weather in the 
world, a rippled lake which murmured 
very gently, a large gayly-decked bark, 
flags and streamers everywhere, the boat- 
men as gayly adorned as their masts, 
branches of flowers, a perfumed atmos- 
phere, three harps, four violins, and two 
hautboys, a wondrous collation, white 
wines, red wines, pale wines, which 
foamed like my heart. Miss Agatha, — like 
my heart. With the wine, the flowers, 
the music, when we arrived I was a little 
flighty, and thought I saw the mountains 
dance. 

We debarked, and the people hastened 
to gaze at us. A man very much out of 
breath pressed through the crowd to 
reach us. He was dressed in black, and 
wore a large hat with a turned-down 
brim. He was a Wesleyan missionary: 
that is the name they give this sort of 
animal. With a resolute air, he planted 
himself before mamma, and barred her 
passage. The party wished to disperse, 
but he made a sign for us to remain 
where we were. He hemmed once, twice, 
and began an harangue in which he treated 
of many things: of the brevity of life, 
of the vanity of pleasure, of good and 
bad examples, of the immortal soul, of 
effectual grace, of the last judgment, of 
hell and of heaven. I lost much of it, 
and of the best; have I not told you that 
my ideas were a little confused at this 
moment? In speaking, he kept his eyes 
lowered, half closed. Mamma gazed at 
him with the sweetest air, and the beauty 
of an angel, with a smile capable of turn- 
ing the heads of all the missionaries in 
the world. The missionary saw fit to 
open his eyes, to raise them : he perceived 
that beauty, that smile ; he lost the thread 
of his discourse, became embarrassed, 


stammered, stopped short. Mamma con- 
tinued to smile. “I thank you for your 
excellent intentions,” she said, extend- 
ing her hand to him; “but what would 
you have? We do not love a stupid life.” 
Thereupon she invited him to dine. The 
poor man could not utter a word ; he made 
a dive, and disappeared. Miss Agatha, 
your intentions are good as those of this 
Wesleyan; but do you understand me? 
We do not love a stupid life. 

Another song. I went last night to my 
first ball, a grand subscription ball, in the 
elegant salons of the grand National Ho- 
tel. Mamma at first refused to take me 
there under the pretext that I am too 
young, that one ought not to dance so 
early. I replied to her, that in ten months 
and twenty days I should be eighteen 
years old, and that, moreover, she had 
solemnly promised to refuse me nothing. 
She had committed herself. To tell 
you what I felt upon entering that great 
hall lighted a giorno — It was quite 
another thing than the decorated bark. A 
sort of madness came over me. I gnawed 
furiously at the fingers of my gloves, and 
mamma gave me a side glance to advise 
me that this was not practised in the 
fashionable world. The ball opened: I 
grasped the arm of a pretty Russian 
prince, who is an accomplished waltzer, 
and took it upon himself to patronize my 
first attempts. 

If you have never waltzed. Miss Agatha, 
you have never lived. Water your gar- 
den-borders, my good people, but do not 
speak of any thing, for you are ignorant 
of all. To whirl around, your head half 
lost, that is life ; the rest is not worth the 
trouble of mentioning. It seemed to me 
that a whirlwind had just transported me 
to the tenth heaven. Suddenly I uttered 
a cry. It was stupid, I know ; but, if I had 
not cried out, I should have fallen dead. 
My Russian prince stopped, looked anx- 
ious, inquired what was the matter. I 
could not answer him that I had cried 
out from excess of joy. I pretended to 
him that my foot had turned, that it was 
nothing, and we flew away again in the 
most beautiful manner imaginable. 

Water your garden-borders, I tell you; 
but I would have you know, that every- 
where but at The Hermitage they take 
Miss Rovel for somebody: that last night 
she created a sensation ; that she was sur- 
rounded, admired, courted ; that they dis- 
puted for a glance, and a little place in 
her note-book. Ah, Miss Agatha, celes- 
tial pity! I said many foolish things to 
my adorers, for I did not* really know 
where I was, and I Avould say any thing 
that came into my head. But, whenever 
these gentlemen go to saying things to 
me I do not like, I gaze at them with 
wide-open, truthful eyes, and they stop 
short like the Wesleyan missionary. 


32 


MISS ROVEL. 


I would have you learn as a guide for 
your future conduct, Miss Agatha, that 
there are men who must be kept back, 
and others whom it is well to encourage. 
This latter is especially true of German 
barons, when they are very blonde and 
very timid. There is one of them here, 
who has large dreamy eyes, and who 
never says any thing. They have nick- 
named iiim the “ Romance without 
Words.” I sometimes meet him on the 
lake shore; he stops to salute me, and 
becomes scarlet as the cap of a cardinal. 
At last night’s ball, after having devoured 
me with his eyes for half the evening, he 
took his courage in his two hands, and 
asked me to dance a polka with him. To 
content him, I broke my engagement with 
some one else. I was determined to make 
this romance speak. I was coquettish, 
provoking. My coiffure became loose : I 
stepped into a little cabinet to arrange it. 
While standing before a glass, I was 
slowly adjusting my hair; the romance 
every moment changed color, and at last, 
unable longer to be silent, he murmured 
very low in my ear, that he adored me. 
“Monsieur,” replied I, “gentlemen say 
those things upon their knees.” The 
simpleton took me at my word. I burst 
out laughing ; mamma appeared, and, see- 
ing a man on his knees before me, she 
flushed with anger. I reminded her that 
she had promised not to scold me ; and 
again she had to submit. 

Moral science, Miss Agatha, is beau- 
tiful, but it is confused, it is involved. 
Pleasure is far more clear, and I know 
a were-wolf who pretends that the most 
precious thing here below is a clear idea. 
When I amuse myself, there is no room 
for doubt ; it is a self-evident fact. Tell 
me what you think of my recitals, and 
quarrel with me. Excepting pleasure, 
nothing is more amusing than a quar- 
rel. 

Miss Agatha, I declare to you, that, 
after mamma and the waltz, you are the 
object I love dearest in the world; decid- 
edly, the fishes only come in for the last 
place. Your Meg.” 

Mile. Ferray more than once gave a lit- 
tle sniff of the nose in reading this second 
letter. She made the following response : 

“ What do I think of your recitals, my 
dear child ? It seems to me, in the first 
place, that Wesleyan missionaries are less 
ridiculous than you say. The one of 
whom you tell me, whether his discourse 
was good or bad, must have made some 
effort of courage in order to speak to you. 
I always admire courage, and I never 
make sport of what I admire. 

“It also seems to me that I do not 
quite understand what you mean by a 
stupid life. If to place duty before pleas- 


ure is the part of a goose, I am with the 
geese, and shall be proud of admittance 
into the poultry-yard. 

“It is my opinion, that, if perfect hap- 
piness consists in whirling around and 
losing one’s head, it is best to go and seek 
it among whirligigs. You place your ideal 
higher, Miss Kovel, when you declare 
that the sovereign good is to be a fish. 
Trout, so far as is in their power, endeavor 
to preserve the head that Heaven has 
given them; and you may be sure that 
Heaven does not give us a head only 
that we may lose it. 

“ I fear you are not wrong in saying to 
your daneing-partners all that enters your 
mind. I read the other day, in a very 
well-written book, that nothing more 
cools the blood than the remembrance 
of a foolish thing one has said. 

“ I think, finally, that the foolish things 
we do are far more to be regretted than 
those we say. It is a veiy foolish thing 
to take pleasure in seeing a man upon his 
knees. It is certain, proven, patent to all, 
that you have beautiful eyes, Miss Rovel. 
Do you doubt it, that you keep trying 
to prove it ? 

“After having meditated upon your 
letter, I dreamed of a pretty bark rap- 
idly descending a rushing stream. I was 
afraid:! dreaded the broad rivers, the 
shallow waters, the eddies, the breakers. 
I implored you to let your good sense 
come quickly, and take its seat at the 
helm. It is the pilot I would choose for 
you, letting it be well understood that 
good sense consists not in refusing per- 
mitted pleasures, but in knowing exactly 
of how much value is all the merchandise 
of this poor world ; things and men, 
beasts and people. 

“ I will trouble you no further with 
long moral lectures. Nothing remains 
but to assure you that I love you with all 
the ardor of my heart. This house has 
an air of sorrow, of languor, of desola- 
tion ; the flies even seem to be ennuyed. 
My rosebushes, which ypu will admire 
no more, the trees of our orchard, the 
brook, all here regrets you. The Hermit- 
age well remembers a young girl, who 
sometimes seems like a giddy-brain, but 
who still knows how to reason very justly 
when she wishes to give herself the trou- 
ble, and to resist her fantasies. My 
blonde darling, after my brother you are 
the one I love best. Alas ! I have place 
in your heart only after the waltz ; I scarce 
gain a step upon the fishes. One must 
be more than seventeen years old to di- 
vine the worth of a sincere friendship, 
even though it scolds a little ; you will 
come to know it, my beautiHil one. 
Meantime I kiss tenderly your blonde 
hair. You have a taste for wordless ro- 
mances; this should encourage me to 
write to you. — Your old friend, who 


MISS HOVEL. 


33 


limps mor^ than ever, now that she has 
no longer the pleasure of seeing you. ” 

It was almost six weeks before Mile. 
Ferray again received news from Meg. 
This long silence disquieted her; she gave 
herself up to the most sombre imagina- 
tions, and set all at the worst. The "bark 
had foundered, perhaps gone down. She 
wrote several times, but there was no re- 
sponse. Sorrow was consuming her ; her 
brother perceived it, questioned her, and 
she told him of her apprehensions. He 
only laughed at them. “ Good heavens ! ” 
said he, “ what matters it, whether there 
is in the world one coquette more or 
less?” It mattered so much to Mile. 
Ferray, that she entreated her brother to 
authorize her to depart at once for 
Lucerne. He refused in a tone that would 
suffer no reply. Finally she received the 
following letter : — 

Lucerne, Nov. 3. 

I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, for 
having so long neglected writing to you. 
I have just returned from a long voyage. 
I have descended through a great black 
hole into a country that you do not know. 
One sees there a great many curious 
things, among others that famous boat 
of Charon which Monsieur Ferray de- 
scribed to me so naturally on a certain 
afternoon when the sky was overcast, and 
we were grafting an apple-tree together. 
While working at his tree, he deigned to 
ingraft into me a little knowledge, even 
me ! How badly they took root, all these 
scions! It is because the gardener did 
not love me, for one grafts well the trees 
he loves. The apple-tree conducts itself 
better than I. From where I now am, I 
see him, and also how cloudy the sky was. 
At the other end of the orchard, a great 
raven was hopping through the newly- 
mown grass. I see him also. 

But why am I writing of apple-trees ? 
I tell you i have gazed upon Charon. He 
said to me that the list of his passengers 
was complete, that he had his instructions 
to return later. I re-ascended through 
the black hole, and behold me here! 
Hail, good people ! Wipe your eye-glasses : 

it is iT 

A truce to mythology. Miss Agatha! 
I am recovering from a confluent small- 
pox, a frightful thing; of all things the 
most frightful. They believed me lost; 
to quote the physicians, it is a miracle 
that I recovered. The first day, mamma 
wanted to write to you, to pray you to 
come and take care of me ; I would not 
allow it. You are so foolish, you would 
have been capable of coming to me. The 
first of virtues. Miss Agatha, is prudence. 
Among all my dancers, there is not one 
who has even dared risk himself in the 
ante-chamber to inquire if I was yet alive. 


They left their cards with the gatekeeper, 
at the end of the garden, and ran away 
themselves. For all the gold in the 
world, that turkey-hen of a Pamela would 
not have approached me. Poor mamma! 
How much sorrow I caused her ! To Ger- 
sau, where she had fled, she made them 
send three times a day the bulletin of my 
health. She was in despair ; so much the 
more so, as she was very badly lodged in a 
little chamber where she could not turn 
around, and whose windows opened 
upon a stable. I was very happy to know 
that she was beyond the reach of infec- 
tion ; if I had given her my malady, if her 
beauty had suffered from it, what would 
have become of me? Nothing would 
have remained to me but to kill myself. 
Miss Agatha, as sure as I exist, you 
would have come ; you have all your life 
done such extravagant things for those 
you love. 

One night, I believed that all was over 
with me ; and, strange to say, this proba- 
bility neither displeased nor alarmed me. 
I had in my head, in my heart as it were, 
a sweet dream: my little soul was gently 
detaching itself from the body. I literal- 
ly felt it going, and I was willing to let it 
go. Life seemed to me an "arduous, 
dreary road ; I was leaving to go whither ? 
I did not know, but surely to a place 
where there are no pebbles at all. 

Ah, how convalescence made me 
suffer ! When one has tasted death, one 
feels that living is a fatigue. This is very 
simply and very easily accounted for: 
little by little, we have accustomed our- 
selves to the thought of dying; let the 
habit once be broken, and life is a busi- 
ness to be taken up and learned anew. 

It is so with every one, I think, 
mademoiselle ; and how a confluent small- 
pox in a little time changes all our ideas ! 
I have reversed my eye-glass. I look 
through the larger end, and my Lucerne 
pleasures appear to me of small account; 
my dancers and mamma’s friends seem 
to me little puppets, ridiculous enough. 
But The Hermitage, on the contrary, ap- 
pears a paradise to my gaze. I am 
tempted to believe that the stupid life I 
have so much execrated consists in not 
living there, that true happiness abides in 
that place, even though there one might 
be threatened with the rod, eve and morn. 

I am pursued by a certain odor of 
dried hay. Miss Agatha. Send me a 
great box where you will have the kind- 
ness to place the most beautiful craw-fish 
of your brook, two pears such as melt in 
one’s mouth, a pebble taken from the 
breach in that little wall I used to love so 
well to demolish, a tuft of wool from 
your tapestry-work, a book, — a book 
upon morals, three pieces of advice, four 
scoldings, a bit of dust you may gather up 
in the library of that were-wolf, just 


34 


MISS ROVEL. 


enougli for me to begrime my fingers 
with ; and some blades of grass plucked 
at the root of that pear-tree we grafted so 
well, — he and I. 

lie will now feel called upon to be 
delighted, to laugh at me. Ah, Miss 
Agatha, your poor Meg — must I speak it 
out? the small-pox has disfigured her; 
she is exceedingly marked ; there are cat- 
aracts upon the eyes to which The Her- 
mitage seems so admirable; her hair is 
falling out. You would recognize her no 
more; she has become fearfully ugly. 
Mamma is dismayed or furious, just as 
you please; it almost seems as if she 
must beat me. What tranquillizes me a 
little, is that the doctors give me their 
most sacred word of honor that I can still 
appeal from this verdict, that all will in 
time arrange itself. I know a very wise 
person who pretends that all at last ar- 
ranges itself. .If she has fibbed about 
this, I shall go to Gersau to see the Wes- 
leyan missionary; perhaps he is there 
yet : I shall force him to marry me, and 
we will depart together to convert the 
Ashantees. 

Adieu, mademoiselle. We leave at 
an early day for Florence, where we are 
to pass the winter. If, at the moment of 
departure, my ugliness makes me very 
much ashamed, I shall pay them to put 
me in the dog-car. Recount my misfor- 
tune to that were-wolf ; he will doubt- 
less pity me, and pardon my crimes. 
Apropos, you will hand to him the accom- 
panying package ; it is all they have been 
able to find. I have massacred one vol- 
ume : I return three almost as large ; it 
seems to me that he owes me some recom- 
pense. 

Very much moved at this letter, Mile. 
Ferray ran to read it to her brother, and 
at the same time handed him the pack- 
age. In default of a Havercamp’s Lu- 
cretius, it contained the superb edition 
of Wakefield, London, printed by Hamil- 
ton in three quarto volumes, 1796. Ray- 
mond had more than once coveted this 
treasure, without the power of obtaining 
it; and assuredly he gained by the ex-, 
change. He was careful to express 
nothing of his satisfaction; and he was 
equally silent in regard to the pity which 
perhaps he felt for two beautiful eyes 
over which cataracts had come, for this 
touching misfortune of a flower suddenly 
surprised by frost. He replied coldly to 
his sister, that she was very inconsistent 
to deplore so deeply an accident which 
ought to set her mind at rest ; decidedly 
women had a passion for afflicting them- 
selves about all things ; a hundred times 
she had disquieted herself on account of 
Miss Rover s too great beauty, a hundred 
times she had foreseen that this beauty 
would be her ruin. She ought to be de- 


lighted to know that Meg was safe; as 
firr the rest, with her dowry, this ugly 
girl would always find a plenty to marry 
iier, and would not be reduced to evange- 
lizing the Ashantees. 

Mile. Ferray found these consolations 
very cruel. A Meg disfigured and with- 
out hair! She reproached Providence, 
with whom she had for some time had a 
coldness, for having committed a crime. 
Had the good God the right to allege to 
her, like" a simple mortal, that the end 
justifies the means ? Since he could do 
all, might he not have ordained that Meg 
should become perfectly wise while re- 
maining perfectly beautiful? Mile. Fer- 
ray implored anew the clemency of her 
brother, and permission to go and bear 
consolation to her dear convalescent. He 
again refused her. 

She addressed long epistles to Miss 
Rovel, in which she relieved her heart. 
She received first from Lucerne, then 
from Florence, short answers in a con- 
strained style, through which Mile. Fer- 
ray discerned evidences of a bitter dis- 
quiet whose secret Meg had promised 
herself to keep. This sort of secrets is 
always badly kept; and Meg had for two 
months and a half dwelt in a charming 
palace, luwjo V Arno, when she wrote to 
Mile. Ferray as follows : — 

Florence, Feb. 5. 

Do not seek to restore hope to me, 
mademoiselle. The doctors are liars. 
I am ugly, and I shall remain ugly. It 
is in vain that I summon up all sorts of 
arguments. I cannot console myself for 
having been beautiful, and being so no 
more; for having been admired, and 
seeing myself condemned to be pitied. 
They are very good to me; they try to 
divert m-^^, to deceive me, to give me 
change ; but they sigh for me, and that is 
the worst of all. I would like to hide 
myself in a rat-hole, and to taste the 
happiness of not being seen. Mamma 
insists upon my appearing. She pre- 
tends that one becomes accustomed to 
all. Ah, mademoiselle, one does not 
become accustomed to being pitied. To 
have life end for you at seventeen and a 
half years! 

This is nothing; the trouble is, that 
mamma, above all things, wishes me to 
marry. She proposes a ridiculous bride- 
groom to me, and is indignant because I 
do not accept him. She pretends, that, as 
I now am, I shall never find any thing 
better. I resist, I argue : she treats me 
as if I were a fool, she torments me, she 
persecutes me ; and this renders me very 
unhappy. 

My kingdom for a horse. Miss Agatha! 
Alas! where is my kingdom? I now 
possess only two sad eyes which reign 
over a devastated face, and vaguely re- 


MISS ROVEL. 


35 


mind tliemselves of having seen me 
beautiful. You, too, have seen that 
beauty, and you know what it was worth. 
Is it necessary for me to tell you of what 
I have need? Of good counsel and a 
good advocate. Some one who has a 
little friendship for me must take it 
upon himself to make mamma hear to 
reason, and leave me in peace ; for, as to 
yielding to her wishes, let us not speak 
of it! I would rather die. 

All is hostile to me, mademoiselle : all 
turns against me. My brother William, 
who has always been a good brother, is 
on ill terms with mamma, and cannot 
render me the least service. Last spring 
he left Barbadoes to make his first tour 
of Europe. He came to visit us at 
Lucerne. In seeing me, all his old affec- 
tion revived. He interrogated me, con- 
fessed me; he scolded me roundly for 
what he called my thoughtlessness and 
frivolity. I showed him your letters ; he 
was charmed with them. Unhappily, 
after having treated me to a system of 
morals, he allowed liirnself to reproach 
mamma for the education she was giving 
me. She was angry, she showed him the 
door, and forbade his ever re-appearing 
in her presence. 

On the eve of our departure for 
Florence, he returned, and paid me a 
secret visit; he saw my disaster, and I 
confided my troubles to him. He pro- 
posed to carry me away, to take me back 
to Barbadoes. I represented to him that 
I had conscientious scruples about leav- 
ing mamma against her will, or unknown 
to her. He approved of my scruples. 
“Then submit yourself,” he said to me, 
“ for I can do nothing for you. I shall 
make matters still worse for you by 
interfering.” He added — Mademoi- 
selle, shall I dare to repeat to you what 
he added ? “ I see in this world,” said he, 
“ only one man to whom you could apply. 
It is he who acted for a year as your guar- 
dian. He has a right to be heard in 
your behalf. If you have need of coun- 
sel or assistance, address yourself to 
him.” — “That man!’ replied I to him. 
“ You do not know him. He has a 
severe disposition. I am afraid of him. 
He had for me, it is true, one glimmer of 
friendship; but it was quickly extin- 
guished, and my conduct toward him has 
not been without reproach.” William 
replied to me, that great souls do riot feel 
little stings, and that they despise small 
resentments. He ended by saying to 
me with a somewhat cruel tenderness, 
“ Ugly as you now are, Meg, who would 
not have pity on you ? Who would have 
the heart to refuse you any thing?” 
Having thus spoken, he embraced me, 
and departed for England, which he will 
soon leave to return to the Antilles. 

I am embarrassed, dear mademoiselle, 


in having reported to you this interview, 
which has very often recurred to my 
mind. I seem to be an indiscreet girl, 
and the worst of all is, that I am so. It is 
certain that my guardian (for William 
is right. Monsieur Ferray is my guardian) 
is the only man who can have influence 
over mamma. She suddenly conceived a 
great esteem for him when she dis- 
covered in him that famous Raymond 
Ferray, who had been .to Mecca. I have 
given myself the pleasure of relating to 
her that perilous adventure, just as he 
himself one day related it to me in a 
mild, summer atmosphere, opposite a low 
hill. In her present humor, a monsieur 
who has been to Mecca disguised as a 
dervish would make her pass through a 
needle’s eye. 

Dear mademoiselle, if Monsieur Fer- 
ray would have some pity on me, if he 
would be so indulgent as to come to see 
me in Florence, I could tell him many 
things which cannot be written ; he could 
arrange a treaty between mamma and me ; 
I should owe to him peace of mind, life 
almost. Would you dare impart to him 
my desire ? Tell him that I have much 
changed, that I have beeome reasonable 
and sedate, that I blush at all my past 
follies, that I would listen to his advice 
as a ward should listen to the advice of a 
guardian she respects, and that he might 
count upon my eternal gratitude. Poor 
Meg! Hers is the virtue of the ugly. 
Your poor little Meg. 

Mile. Ferray’ s heart beat very rapidly 
when she entered her brother’s study to 
acquaint him with Meg’s audaeious re- 
quest. Scarce did he allow her to finish. 
Repulsing her, he declared that he was 
not crack-brained ; that, being in posses- 
sion of all his reason, he did not care to 
run to Florence to console there a little 
girl whom the small-pox had marked; 
that this was no affair of his ; that he was 
perfectly indifferent to Miss Rovel’s grat- 
itude or ingratitude ; that, moreover, this 
young girl would do well to aceept the 
husband they proposed for her, even 
though he were a clown, a cripple, or any 
poor creature mentally and physically. 
He assured his sister that this was the 
only advice he had to offer, and that she 
could send it to Miss Rovel for all he 
cared. 

“You are really pitiless,” returned 
Mile. Ferray, “ and this poor little girl is 
so unhappy.” 

“Good God!” cried Raymond, “if, 
with a stroke of some magic wand, I 
could restore Miss Rovel’s beauty, I 
should hesitate about doing so. I infi- 
nitely regret that she has not been able 
to follow her vocation, which was to be- 
come a heartless coquette, and to imprison 
in her cage all the simpletons who would 


36 


MISS ROVEL. 


allow themselves to be taken by her bird- 
lime. Heaven has seen tit, through a 
grievous infliction, to derange this beauti- 
ful destiny. I am sorry for her, but I 
know of no remedy.” 

He said no more, and here the inter- 
view ended. Some days later, Meg re- 
newed her request in a more urgent tone ; 
and Mile. Ferray, at the risk of being 
eaten, ventured again into the cave of 
this Cyclops, hoping to move him. Now 
he was seriously angry; he thundered 
forth his resentment, calling heaven and 
Lucretius to witness that he had formed 
the fixed resolution to pass his days with- 
out again seeing Miss Rovel, or hearing 
her name mentioned. 

Mile. Ferray, greatly afflicted, wrote to 
Meg that she had been repulsed with loss ; 
but she implored her to have a little pa- 
tience, as she should be sure to return 
obstinately to the charge, and by a regu- 
lar siege reduce the stronghold she had 
not been able to carry by assault. Four 
days later, M. Raymond Ferray, to his 
great surprise, received the following 
note : — 

“How good you are, monsieur! I see 
that my brother said true, that they can 
refuse nothing to this ugly girl. The cer- 
tainty that you have pardoned me for all, 
makes me almost forget my chagrin. 
Mile. Ferray wrote me a little while ago, 
that one must be more than seventeen 
years old to appreciate the worth of a sin- 
cere and devoted friendship. I believe 
that a great illness matures one’s mind 
more than ten years of life : I challenge 
any one to appreciate your kindness as 
much as I. You are the man whom I 
most respect; formerly this respect in- 
commoded me, and my heart sought to 
shake off its burden: to-day, the man 
whom I honor most is the only one who 
inspires me with an absolute confidence ; 
and I experience a delight I cannot ex- 
press, in thinking that he is interested in 
me, that he consents to render me the 
essential service which I have the indis- 
cretion to ask of him. I thank you with 
all my heart, monsieur, and I await 
you.” 

As may well be imagined, Raymond 
had a stormy interview with his sister, 
at which he demanded an explanation of 
this strange billet-doux. She justified 
herself as best she could without impli- 
cating Miss Rovel ; alleged that she had 
entertained scruples about throwing this 
poor little girl into despair, that she had 
amused her with a vague promise, delayed 
in its fulfilment until the latter days of 
August; that Meg had a lively imagina- 
tion, that she had understood her reply 
entirely wrong. 

When two obstinate-headed women 
ally themselves against one poor man, his 
defeat is written in heaven. After hav- 


ing sworn a hundred times that he hoped 
to be hung if he went to Florence, Ray- ^ 
mond set out one morning, blustering ' 
about Meg, indignant at his sister, furious 
at his own weakness, and flattering him- 
self that within four days he should be 
on his return to The Hermitage. 

Superior minds are curious minds ; and 
whoever is born curious, whether he Avill 
or no, finds some pleasure in running 
about the world. This world is an agree- 
able-sojourn for him who promenades 
here as a simple traveller; it is full of 
things which wound the heart, it is rich 
in spectacles which amuse or rejoice the 
eyes. In urging Raymond to set out, 
Mile Ferray thought to render him a ser- 
vice ; she was persuaded that this enforced 
journey would do him a great deal of 
good. There was impressed upon her 
mind a salutary idea, that, as soon as he 
had broken his vow of seclusion, his im- 
aginations would take another course, and 
that he would be delivered from that 
dangerous charm solitude had thrown 
around him. She had for a long time 
cherished her own idea as to her brother s 
malady ; she had made up her mind that 
he was suffering from a paralysis of the 
will, and that paralyzed wills are cured 
by provoking a crisis which constrains 
them to act. Mile. Ferray believed in 
the omnipotent virtue of effort. It is, in- 
deed, a remedy of more avail than many 
quack medicines. 

Raymond had made an oath that from 
Geneva to Florence he would gaze at 
nothing; but, in spite of it, he could not 
forbear opening his eyes. He proposed to 
himself to hurry through Boulogne with- 
out stopping ; and yet he halted there to 
pay a visit to the Saint-Cecilia de la Pin- 
acotheque. No traveller meets Raphael 
without holding communion with him, 
and we do not with impunity hold com- 
munion with Raphael. The next day, 
Raymond left Boulogne by that admira- 
ble raihvay which ascends the Reno, and 
through tunnel after tunnel climbs the 
Apennines. It was in the latter half of 
February. Yesterday, in crossing Lom- 
bardy, our tourist had found the land- 
scape white with snow ; when he reached 
the southern slope of the Apennines, a 
warm breeze swept his forehead, and he 
could not help feeling some emotion as 
his rapid glance took in the steep declivi- 
ties, covered with pines and olive-trees, 
which enclose Pistoja on all sides. The 
spring was here awaiting him to give 
him a welcome reception. His ill humor 
could not resist so many enchantments; 
he admitted, that, if it is the first duty of 
the sage to enclose and* vail up his heart, 
he is allowed to let his eyes and his 
thoughts wander around him ; and, if he 
is a fool to believe in happiness, he must 
be an imbecile not to believe in pleasure. 


MISS ROVEL. 37 


When he reached Florence, he was half 
reconciled to his journey and to Miss 
Rovel. From an interview that he had 
with himself, he concluded that Meg 
must have been very unhappy to seek the 
assistance of the man who had humiliated 
her, and that she must be well cured of 
all coquetry not to fear showing herself 
to him in the state to which her malady 
liad reduced her. He formed the lauda- 
ble project of dealing very courteously 
with her, of gazing kindly on her, of lis- 
tening benevolently to her, and of coun- 
selling her as a friend. He promised 
himself to be cheaply rid of this little 
consultation, and that, before returning 
to Geneva, he would employ a day in 
seeing again the c/ic/s-d’ceitrre of Michael 
Angelo, and the frescos of Masaccio. 

It was in this happy and charitable 
frame of mind that he made his entree 
into Florence. Scarce had he set foot 
upon the quay of the dock, when a 
negress of his acquaintance, very much 
overdressed, came to meet him, and said 
to him, “ Ah, how delighted Miss Rovel 
will be ! She had guessed that you would 
arrive to-day. She is below in her car- 
riage. I will run to inform her.” 

Raymond was bewildered at the thought 
that Meg was there, that he was going to 
see her again without having had time to 
recover breath. He feared lest he should 
not be able sufficiently to dissimulate the 
impression he should feel in finding her 
so changed, that he might not succeed in 
concealing the first horrified glance. Just 
as he was passing into the baggage hall to 
look after his trunk, a little hand pressed 
his very hard, and a voice whose ringing 
tone was softened, said almost in his ear, 
“Ah, monsieur, my guardian, how kind 
it is in you to be a man of your word ! ” 

He started, and quickly turned his head 
toward the person who addressed him. 
She wore a fur cap, and a dress of a deep 
blue color ; but he could not see her face, 
which was hidden by a veil of very thick 
grenadine. Still holding him by the hand, 
she led him into a corner of the hall, and 
there, planting herself before him, she 
suddenly lifted her veil. For a long time 
he gazed at her with a disconcerted air. 
If she had had the small-pox, there was 
little appearance of it ; she had preserved 
all her hair, both her eyes, the delicacy 
and velvety smoothness of her com- 
plexion. She was greatly changed. As 
she had said in one of her letters, an ill- 
ness takes the place of years in maturing 
that it does not destroy. Her features 
were formed, her figure had gained in 
height; her glance was less animated, but 
it had more depth. The bud had opened, 
and the flower appeared to Raymond in 
all the splendor of its beauty. 

He disengaged his hand, his face grew 
sombre, and he exclaimed in an exasper- 


ated tone, “Miss Rovel, I have no taste 
for mystifications.” 

“Ah, well,” said she, laughing, “you 
are in a rage because I am not as ugly as 
I boasted myself to be. With your kind 
permission, I will accept this towering 
passion as a compliment, and it will be 
the first you have ever paid m^e.” 

“ I am not in the humor to pay you 
compliments,” said he dryly. “ I allow 
no one to make sport of me, and I shall 
take the return train immediately.” 

“ You will do no such thing,” answered 
Miss Rovel. “ That would be the pro- 
ceeding of a vilianous man. Am I, then, 
so criminal ? I tried to excite your com- 
passion as the only way of inducing you 
to come ; and I counted very much upon 
seeing you.” 

“ Is it a wager that you had sworn to 
win ? ” asked he. “ Miss Rovel, do me the 
favor to explain to me at once, how much 
there is of truth and how much of false- 
hood in all you have written to my sister.” 

“ Upon my honor, monsieur, it is false 
that the small-pox has permanently dis- 
figured me ; but it is very true that it for 
a time made sad havoc with my good 
looks. It is also true, that I have been 
very ill of the disease, and thought I 
should die; that this little unfortunate 
accident awoke within me many grave 
reflections ; that you will make discoveries 
in my character which will charm you. 
It is false that I am very unhappy, this is 
not within my power ; but it is true that 
I am tormented by scruples of conscience, 
by uncertainties from which I wish to be 
relieved at any price. It is not true that 
I have need of consolation ; I shall always 
know how to console myself; but it is 
true that I am in great need of counsel, 
and that I wish to ask it of you. 

“ Finally, it is true, — of all truths there 
is none truer, — that nothing is more 
charming than the hills around Florence, 
that you are going to walk over them this 
afternoon, that at the summit of Mount 
Oliveto you will find a little chapel from 
which there is a very pretty outlook, that 
it is a very solitary place, that you will be 
careful to stop there, that toward three 
o’clock I will come to join you, and that 
we shall talk there without fear of intru- 
sion. Oh, do not say No, my dear guar- 
dian ! it is my last fantasy, the very last 
of them all. Meantime Pamela is going 
to conduct you to the hotel where I have 
secured apartments for you. You will be 
very pleasantly situated there. From your 
window you will see the Arno, and the 
citron-colored sunsets which you must 
tell me all about, — citron-color, I tell 
you, that alone repays you for your jour- 
ney.” 

And at these words, waving him an 
adieu, she flew away without waiting his 
reply. 


38 


MISS ROVEL. 


YI. 

Meg had carefully chosen the apart- 
ments destined for her guardian. They 
were in a hotel situated upon the quay in 
the vicinity of the palazzo occupied by 
Lady Rovel. The windows opened to the 
south, the l>alcony looked upon the Arno 
and the hills which environ it in a ver- 
dant, undulating girdle. Agreeable as 
were his lodgings, Raymond installed 
himself there without pleasure. He was 
in no disposition to admire any thing. lie 
could not forgive himself for being caught 
like a simpleton in the net that had been 
set for his pity; he was struck with the 
change that had taken place in Meg, and 
which responded so little to the idea he 
had formed of her; he was greatly 
troubled at the vivid impression this 
change had made upon him, deeply cha- 
grined at not having better known how to 
conceal it, and very much embarrassed at 
the role of guardian into which he had 
allowed himself to be enticed, and which 
he was loth to assume seriously. 

Smarting from resentment, and har- 
assed by a vague anxiety, he felt almost 
inclined to return at once to Geneva. 
And yet, when he had taken time to col- 
lect his thoughts, he decided, that, now 
the wine was drawn, he should have to 
drink it. Ilis apprehensions began to 
appear to him idle and without founda- 
tion ; he crossed the Arno, passed 
through the Porta Romana, and, turning 
to the right, he followed a straight, as- 
cending path, bordered by high walls. 

Three hours had struck when he 
reached the summit of Mount Oliveto, 
and the little chapel where Meg had 
appointed their rendezvous. He lighted 
a cigar, and seated himself near a bloom- 
ing hedge whence came a perfume of 
violets. Opposite him stretched an or- 
chard of olive-trees, carpeted with fresh 
green grass, sown with wild jonquils and 
anemones. Beyond, he caught a glimpse 
of the smiling region through which the 
Arno flows. 

He had been for ten minutes at his 
post, contemplating by turns the olives, 
the undulations of the landscape crowned 
with churches, villas, and convents, the 
ashen-gray Apennines, and the great 
white, rose-tinted clouds, when a re- 
markably handsome young gentleman 
appeared, mounted on a remarkably 
handsome horse. He was a lusty fellow, 
tall and well made, with a rakish figure, 
a haughty face, and a nose in the air ; he 
wore a fine mustache, upturned at the 
corners ; there was a look of mad daring 
in his eye, and I know not what mad pro- 
ject in his head. 

Having thrown a glance at the hedge, 
he frowned slightly; he had reckoned 
without his he st, and Raymond had not 


entered into his calculations. Not allow- 
ing himself to assume an offensive atti- 
tude toward the unwelcome stranger, he 
saluted him courteously, and begged the 
favor of a light from his cigar. Raymond 
rose, and presented his cigar; the hand- 
some young man lighted his, thanked 
him, and bowed anew. He manifested 
some displeasure in seeing Raymond sit 
down again. 

“You are a foreigner?” asked he with 
an air of courteous command. 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“Have you been a long time in 
Florence? ” 

“Since this morning.” 

“ Is this your first visit here?” 

“ It is my second, and I have not yet 
made the acquaintance of Mount Oliveto.” 

“ It is a pretty place,” replied the young 
gentleman ; “ but when you retrace your 
steps, upon turning to the left, you will 
find near here at Bello Sguardo, a point 
of view veiy much superior to this. 
Through a notch which Nature has 
formed between two hills, you will see 
all Florence, Fiesole, and its mountain. 
It is a prospect I cannot too highly 
recommend to you.” 

He descanted with so much warmth 
and energy upon this delightful prospect, 
that Raymond at last asked himself if the 
handsome cavalier did not propose to get 
rid of him. The idea also occurred to 
Raymond, that this young gentleman had 
seen Meg going toward the chapel, that 
he had got the start, and was awaiting 
her, and that he felt some exasperation 
in seeing the place occupied. Perhaps 
M. Ferray was not wrong' in his conjec- 
ture. As he rose, he saw the young fel- 
low’s brow grow clear, while his glance 
encouraged the intruder to be going. 
Suddenly he exclaimed, “ In truth, mon- 
sieur, you may vaunt yourself upon 
having such an opportunity. If you go 
to Bello Sguardo, jmu will meet upon the 
road the most beautiful object Florence 
possesses.” 

And with his forefinger he pointed to 
Miss Rovel, who, wearing a hazel-col- 
ored dress, and accompanied by her 
faithful Pamela, had just arrived at the 
summit of the hill in a cabriolet which 
she guided herself. She assured herself 
that Ra^nnond was there. Seeing him 
engaged in conversation, she halted, and 
feigned to be examining the landscape, 
while she impatiently awaited the de- 
parture of the intruder. 

“ In fact, the person you admire is not 
bad,” said Raymond to the youjig man, 
who was indignant at his coolness. 

“Open your eyes wide as you pass 
near her,” returned he, “and" you will 
perhaps find something to add to your 
praise. For six months she has filled the 
city and its subui’bs with her beauty. 


MISS ROYEL. 


39 


Her black eyes have kindled more than 
one conflagration. We admire her, we 
adore her; but we do not dare express our 
sentiments to her too warmly.” 

And why not?” asked Raymond. 

“Recause she is an English girl, and 
she will take it that we wish to marry 
her.” 

“ Would that be so great a misfor- 
tune?” 

“It is in the nature of man to love to 
preserve his property,” replied the young 
gentleman in a sardonic tone, “and cer- 
tain treasures are difficult to keep ; they 
conspire with thieves. The person of 
whom we speak, they say, will bring her 
husband a dowry of three hundred thou- 
sand francs; many people are of the 
opinion that this would not compensate 
for three hundred thousand disqui- 
etudes.” 

“ Is she, then, so disquieting?” 

“Those who know her best aver that 
she has two souls, the one blonde as 
her hair, the other black as her eyes ; and 
that as yet she belongs neither to God 
nor to the devil. I would wager willing- 
ly for the devil. Adieu, monsieur; look 
well at her; she is worth the trouble.” 

Raymond bowed, and directed his steps 
toward Miss Rovel, who, seeing him ap- 
proach, cried out in a loud voice, “You 
are very welcome, my dear guardian; 
have I made you wait?” 

As he heard these words, the young 
gentleman opened his eyes veiy wide, and 
bit his lips as if to punish them for their 
indiscretion. He immediately gave rein 
to his horse, and withdrew, asking him- 
self how long Miss Rovel had possessed a 
guardian, and reproaching himself with 
having made a blunder. This frequently 
happened in his case ; but he had a lively 
disposition, and did not long remain a 
prey to any chagrin he might at first feel 
on that account. 

As soon as he was out of sight, Meg 
gave over the reins into Pamela’s hands, 
and, leaping quickly to the ground, she 
ran to meet Raymond, who was advancing 
with rather a morose air. 

“Ah, yes!” exclaimed she, throwing 
her arms aloft, “ I see at the very first 
onset, that you are going to scold me. 
It is a destiny I shall not escape.” 

“ No, Miss Kovel, i am not going to 
scold you at all,” replied he: “ I have 
sworn to scold you no more, and I do not 
like to waste my time. I only regret, that, 
if you w'ere ill last autumn, you had not 
remained so a longer time.” 

“ What inspires in you this charitable 
regret? ” 

” I would have you understand that a 
severe illness is a grand school of wisdom. 
I fear that the lesson has been too short, 
that the professor has released you too 
soon.” 


“ In what respect then, I pray you, has 
my conduct been wanting in wisdom ?” 

“In this. Miss Rovel: that, instead of 
quietly awaiting me in your mother’s par- 
lor, wdiich would have been the best place 
for our conversation, it has pleased you 
to make our rendezvous a hill, which is 
not as solitary as you imagine. Brilliant 
young cavaliers promenade here, wdio are 
very well acquainted with you, and leave 
this place convinced” — 

“ That they are about to discover a se- 
cret, ” interi'upted she. “ Is that my 
fault? Why has not my guardian, who 
possesses the wisdom of ten old men, 
white hair, a face suited to his office, and 
a figure which dispels evil suspicions? 
What would you have ? We must be con- 
tent with that we possess. Ah, what 
matter to us the reflections of all the 
young cavaliers in the world?” 

“What is the name of this one, who 
really is very good-looking? ” 

“ ile is a Sicilian, Prince Natti, or the 
handsome Sylvio, as they call him in 
Florence ; a superb fellow in face and fig- 
ure, a little of a madcap, with a some- 
what fiery brain. He is the most reckless 
gamester in Italy, and is almost always 
lucky, although at the baths of Lucca, 
the other night, he lost fifty thousand 
francs in two hours. Since this misfor- 
tune, he has been trying to persuade me 
that he thinks me a hundred times i)ret- 
tier than a roulette. But I don’t believe 
a thing of it, and I care for him as much 
as this” — And, with a well-applied jerk 
of her thumb and forefinger, she sent 
whirling in the air a pretty beetle that 
had alighted on one of the flounces of 
her dress. 

Then she added, “ But we dawdle, 
my guardian, we trifle; and time is pass- 
ing.” 

She took Raymond by the hand, and 
led him to one of the steps before the 
facade of the little chapel. Pointing out 
to him with her parasol the olive- 
orchard, and the grass sown with jonquils, 
she said, “It must be confessed that 
this is a suspicious place; it appears bet- 
ter adapted to saying foolish things, than 
to rendering an account to one’s guardian.” 

“Who has demanded an account from 
you?” returned Raymond. “I beg you 
to remember that I have not.” 

“ Oh I do not put on that disdainful air,” 
she answered, making a wry face. “You 
pretend not to like me; but, if the truth 
were told, you feel a great interest in me, 
and you will be charmed to hear the story 
of my sorrows. Permit me to treat of 
them serious4^” 

“ That depends upon them and upon 
you. And, in the first place, have you 
several of them?” 

“ Two: and that is enough to kill one 
woman.” 


40 


MISS ROVEL. 


“You will not die of them. What is 
the first? ” 

She lowered her head, and replied sad- 
ly, “The first is that mamma does not 
love me.” 

“ Ah ! that is very sad. WTiy, then, 
does your mother love you no longer?” 

“It is a delicate matter to speak of,” 
replied she crumpling between her fingers 
the lace of her flowing sleeve, “ and I 
would dare make this confession to no 
one but you. This poor mamma has a 
strange heart. Last year, during my ill- 
ness, she was in despair ; she trembled for 
my face. She was soon re-assured, and 
testified her joy to me ; but scarce were 
we in Florence when I perceived that she 
was not entirely content with being so 
content. I do not know what has hap- 
pened to me; but as Pamela, who is a 
very understanding person, says, I am no 
longer to he made, I am made. Mamma 
is more beautiful than I: I take great 
pains to tell her so. The trouble is, that I 
am seventeen years and a half old, and 
have the beauty belonging to youth ; there 
is no help for that. In short, when we 
drive on the Cascine, we are a great deal 
looked at, and I very well see that she 
asks herself whether it is she or I they 
are gazing at. In the evening, in her 
salon, the glances and the attentions 
divide ; I entrap half of theni ; she con- 
siders this stolen property, and I swear to 
you that it comes to me without effort on 
my part. Whatever I do, she always 
finds something in it to reprove. If I 
adorn myself, I am a coquette ; if I neg- 
lect myself, I have a presumptuous confi- 
dence in my charms ; if I am serious, I 
have some adventure in my head ; if I am 
pensive, I have applied myself to dream- 
ing; if I laugh heartily, it'is to show my 
fine teeth and to be insolent; and God 
knows that all my insolence consists in 
not having thought of this at all. She 
says such things only by fits; she is often- 
er silent and distant, and puts on icy 
airs that throw me into consternation; 
for I adore this dear, beautiful mamma, 
and, wlien she used to beat me, I adored 
her still.” 

“ The result of all this is, that she is in 
haste to get rid of you by marrying you.” 

“You are perfectly right. That is my 
second trouble.” 

“Are you not yet reconciled to mar- 
riage?” 

“ To marriage perhaps, but not to the 
husband! I have in my head a certain 
young gentleman you can find neither in 
Florence nor anywhere else.” 

“ An Amadis? ” 

“How do I know? The husband of 
whom I dream must be a very romantic 
man, but one who has no appearance of 
being so; he must be a sedate, sensible 
man, but still with a great many inclina- 


tions to folly, so that, with his pretence of 
despising all follies, he would be capable 
of committing the greatest of all ” — 

“That of mariying you,” interrupted 
Raymond, smiling. 

“That matter is still a little involved,” 
replied she, “ and I have not yet very 
well untangled my knotted skein. Does 
he exist, this man ? I read the other day, 
that the world is delightful, and that we 
discover there what we seek.” 

“ And, while you are seeking, Lady 
Rovel has found ? ” 

“Alas! with the pistol at my throat, 
she demands that I approve her choice.” 

He was silent for an instant : tlien lie 
replied, “ Whatever the books may say, 
we so rarely find what we seek, that we 
ought to try to love what we find.” 

“ And so you propose for me to marry 
this monkey? ” 

“ Why not ? According to its pleasure, 
happiness assumes all sorts of visages.” 

“ You are not difficult about the happi- 
ness of others. If I were to tell you the 
name of this handsome aspirant — I give 
you it from a hundred; I give you it 
from a thousand.” 

“ Do I know him, then ? ” 

“Assuredly; and you know just what 
he amounts to, and especially what he 
weighs; a little while ago you had the 
curiosity to try that experiment, and he 
appeared to you light as a feather. It 
is— do you leave off trying to guess? 
It is the Marquis de Boisgenet.” 

“The Marquis de Boisgenet?” cried 
Raymond drawing himself up to his full 
height. 

“ Your indignation enchants me,” re- 
plied she. “I have reason to believe, 
that in reality you set a far higher price 
upon me than you are pleased to let 
people see.” 

“Let us speak seriously,” resumed he. 
“ This man, can he really have the 
effronteiy ” — 

“ It is not effrontery. He is inflamma- 
ble and headstrong. My rigor has exas- 
perated his tenderness, and, his wounded 
vanity entering into the game, he has s won i 
that he will overcome my resistance. He 
some time ago made mamma’s acquaint- 
ance; he saw her last winter in Germany; 
he followed her to Lucerne. He ex- 
perienced some embarrassment in seeing 
Miss Marvellous appear one day; but his 
confusions are brief. He laid siege to 
me, and so cajoled me by his grimaces 
of repentance and contrition, that he 
wrested from me the promise not to tell 
mamma that he had one evening invited 
rne out to admire the moon. For some 
time there was nothing more, until at last, 
breaking out again in the most eloquent 
manner, he declared that he was madly 
in love with me, and also that his inten- 
tions were honorable; for one does not 


MISS ROVEL. 


41 


sing the same air to Miss Marvellous and to 
Miss Kovel. Since then he has besieged 
me with insipidities, with madrigals, with 
supplications. He hopes that, weary of 
resistance, I shall end by saying Yes. 

“Meantime, as he is a venomous crea- 
ture, it has occurred to me that he has 
been saying to all the world, that Miss 
Kovel has only a#pitiful dowry, and no 
expectations at all for the reason that 
her father intends to leave her noticing, 
and that her mother has fine teeth, and 
will make a clean dish of it before she 
dies. The first point is true; but he, 
better than any one else, knows that the 
second is false, that mamma is very rich, 
and that there is more method in her 
madness than people think. He declares 
that one must have rather confused 
brains to demand in marriage a giddy 
creature, who has all imaginable faults, 
and a fixed determination to lead a good 
deal of a dance to the man who marries 
her. In short, like the great king you 
quoted to me one day, he spits into the 
pot so as to disgust others.” 

“A nice little man!” said Raymond. 
“ And how has he contrived to win your 
mother’s consent?” 

“ In the first place, he possesses three 
or four millions, which enable him to 
live a life of ease, and Madame de Boisge- 
net will be a very well-situated person. 
Secondly, — Ah, this is a delicate thing to 
say! he has the advantage of being old 
and ugly ; and, if I marry him, it will be 
impossible to pretend that Miss Kovel 
has permitted herself to dispute, to fore- 
stall — Decidedly, I can find no words 
to express this ; I will not try. Finally, 
he is, of all mortals, the most officious, 
the most serviceable, the most eager to 
assist. He is mamma’s factotum; he 
runs around for her, does her errands, 
makes her purchases, goes to her glov- 
er’s, to her florist’s, sees to the wash- 
ing of her parrot, — a delicate operation 
of which he acquits himself enchantingly, 
— and every day he takes Mirette, her 
little dog, out to walk, claiming no recom- 
pense but to kiss her pretty flat nose ; for 
he has a weakness for flat noses. And 
then he understands business; he is a 
man of expedients, of resources. He 
has advised mamma as to certain advan- 
tageous investments; and last month, 
perceiving that she had two hundred 
thousand francs worth of lace of which 
she was very weary, he went in person to 
sell it in Paris, and brought her back 
more than a hundred thousand crowns. 
Confess that this is a precious man and a 
most desirable son-in-law.” 

“Unquestionably; and yet, if you 
should tell Lady Rovel of that affair 
between this precious man and your 
negress ” — 

“ They both persist,” interrupted Meg, 


“that it was nothing at all. M. de Bois- 
genet has sworn to me by all the superior 
gods, that, my jest having appeared to 
him as charming as cruel, he had feigned 
to enter into it; and that was all, abso- 
lutely- all. Let those believe it who will ; 
but i promised to keep the affair secret, 
and I would not wish to drive Pamela 
away.” 

“You do not know how to despise: 
that is the gravest of your faults,” said 
Raymond with a touch of anger. “ I 
believed that, at least, you had a will of 
your own. Does your mother intend to 
use constraint to make you marry M. de 
Boisgenet? ” 

“Constraint! not precisely; but her 
entreaties very much resemble com- 
mands, and at times I fear lest I may 
yield to the temptation.” 

“That word delights me,” cried he 
excitedly. “ If you are tempted. Miss 
Rovel, marry this marquis and his four 
millions right away. I am charmed to 
have come to Geneva expressly to be the 
first to congratulate you.” 

“ I adore you when you are angry,” 
replied she ; “ your indifference is my 
only enemy. Ah ! for shame ! you do 
not know me; it is not the millions 
which tempt me ; I shall never have that 
sort of devotion. What embarrasses me 
is, that it seems to me as if there were 
within me two souls ” — 

“ The one blonde as your hair, the other 
black as your eyes. Prince Natti said 
that just now.” 

“ It is true, whoever says it; and from 
this result great inward contentions. 
One of my souls would be delighted to 
live upon pure water and dry bread with 
its Amadis ; but the other represents to 
me, that, if I have the misfortune to 
marry the man I love, I shall believe 
myself in duty bound to render him 
happy, to practise in a saintly way all 
the great and small virtues of marriage, 
to plunge myself up to the neck in 
duty ” — 

“In a word, to lead a stupid life,” 
interrupted Raymond. 

“ While, if I were to marry a Marquis 
de Boisgenet,” pursued she, “I should 
believe myself pledged to nothing at all, 
only to amuse myself in avenging myself, 
and to avenge myself in amusing myself. 
I must confess that this would seem 
more lively.” 

“ Marry him, marry him, I tell you ! ” 
replied he savagely. “You need not 
hesitate. The deuce take this stupid 
life ! ’ 

She inclined toward him, and regarded 
him with a reproachful air. “Ah, well, 
said she passionately, “never mind! 
Since it is so, since you basely abandon 
me to my evil thoughts, since you refuse 
to guard me from tWptation, since, after 


42 


IVnSS ROYEL. 


having taught me astronomy, Corneille, 
and the great men of Plutarch, you en- 
courage me to give myself to the Devil 
under the guise of M. de BoisgenGt, — so 
he it ! I will marry him, and vive la cjaiete 
fraiiQuise I ” 

At these words, raising her parasol, 
she struck with it a blow so violent upon 
the stone step where they were seated, 
that the handle narrowly escaped being 
broken. 

Raymond rose. “ Calm yourself,” said 
he: ” I will do what you wish.” And, 
as he offered his arm to conduct her 
to the carriage, he added, “ Give me 
your orders: what can I do to serve 
you? ” 

Her eyes expressed gratitude, and she 
pressed the ends of his fingers. “ The 
first thing necessary,” replied she, “ is 
that you go and see mamma to-morrow, 
that you preach to her, that you reclaim 
her. Try at least to induce her to grant 
me some delay, and beg her to take time 
to change her mind. I should be the 
happiest girl in the world, if they would 
speak to me no more of M. de Boisgenet. 
And then, if you would set the climax to 
your kind acts, you will aid me in discov- 
ering what I seek through all Florence, 
— a man who in a slight degree resem- 
bles the one I have in my head.” 

He interrupted her by saying, “ You 
demand too much of me ; that surpasses 
my powers and my province; I cannot 
take it upon myself to hunt up that wise 
man who would be capable of commit- 
ting the folly of marrying you; but I 
will speak to your mother. I only fear 
lest you slightly exaggerate the authority 
of my eloquence.” 

“Need! repeat to you,” replied she, 
“ that a man who has been to Mecca can 
obtain any thing he pleases from 
mamma? ” Then she added, “ Apropos, 
in a few days she is to give a grand dress 
costume and mask ball. She will cer- 
tainly demand you to appear in the guise 
of a dervish.” 

“Much obliged,” replied he. “She 
has neglected to teach hef bear to dance ; 
it is a little late to recommence his educa- 
tion r, and by day after to-morrow I shall 
be on my way home.” 

Meg sprang into her cabriolet, and 
took the reins from the hand of her 
negress: then, with a demoniac smile, 
she cried ont, “Adieu, wisest, soleinuest, 
most grumbling, most growling, most 
fault-finding, least obliging, and most 
charming of guardians ! ” And, brandish- 
ing her whip-lash in the air, she added, 
“Oh, I have no longer any fear; it is I 
who hold the reins ! ” 

So saying, she bowed, and drove off 
at full speed. Raymond gazed after her 
for some moments. He thought, I know 
not why, of the female sentinel who had 


made a prisoner. “ Bring him in,” cried 
the corporal. “I cannot,” replied she: 
“he does not wish to leave me.” Ray- 
mond felt deeply the force of this com- 
parison, and was promising himself that 
before two days his prisoner would have 
left him, when he saw arriving through a 
by-path a prancing cavalier; and Prince 
Natti, having taken off his hat, cried out 
to him in a gracious tone, yet with a 
slight touch of irony, “ I often do foolish 
things, monsieur, but rarely two at a 
time, as happened to me just now. 
Please excuse me for having spoken 
lightly of your adorable Avard, and for 
not having divined immediately that I 
Avas disturbing a tHe-a-tete.” 

Then he put spurs to his horse as if he 
wished to overtake the cabriolet. This 
was not at all his intention. He only de- 
sired to folloAv at a distance, and he took 
care not to lose sight of the equipage. 
He saw it arrive before the Porta Bomanaj 
stop there an instant as if for counsel, 
then, turning its back to Florence, reso- 
lutely enter the grand highway leading 
to the Chartreuse d’Ema, a fortified clois- 
ter Avhich occupies the platform of a 
rocky mound, and commands a land- 
scape soracAvliat austere in its beauty. 

Prince Natti also rode toward the 
Chartreuse, and hastened on so as to 
keep in sight of the carriage in Avhose 
destination he was so greatly interested. 
At the end of half an hour it left the 
high road, turned to the right, and 
halted at the base of the acclivity leading 
to the convent. Meg alighted ; and, lea\^- 
ing her equipage in charge of Pamela, 
she rapidly walked up the path, not Avith- 
out turning more than once * o assure 
herself that she Avas Avatched by no 
indiscreet person. Pamela folloAved 
inquisitively Avith her eyes; then, nest- 
ling into a corner of the carriage, she 
closed her eyelids, and took advantage 
of the time either to sleep or to droAvse 
softly, and dream at her ease of some 
other Marquis de Boisgenet, more gener- 
ous and more faitliful than the one she 
had knoAvn. 

She had been dreaming for some min- 
utes, when she felt upon her lips a tick- 
ling which at once startled and aAvakeiied 
her. She smiled Avith an agreeable air, 
in finding herself opposite a young and 
lively cavalier, AA'ho had amused himself 
by caressing her Avith the end of his 
riding-Avhip. 

“Amiable blackamoor,” said he, in 
French, “I had a grudge against your 
slumber, Avhich closed from my vieAv the 
most beautiful eyes that have ever illum- 
ined Africa*.’ 

Pamela had draAvn a double advantage 
from her adventure Avith M. de Bois- 
genet; she had become a little more dis- 
trustful, and she had set herself to learn- 


MISS ROVEL. 43 


ing languages, because it is very conven- 
ient to be one’s own interpreter. She 
shook her head, and replied with a mod- 
est smile, — 

“ Prince Natti will never make poor 
Pamela believe that it is in honor of 
her beautiful eyes he has for eight days 
obstinately persisted in following us in 
all our promenades.” 

“You are a girl full of good sense,” 
replied the prince; “but I assure you, 
that, if I were not madly in love with your 
beautiful mistress, it is at your feet I 
should lay my heart.” 

And taking from his purse ten, gold 
pieces, which he put half in his right 
hand, half in his left, he resumed, 
“ Blackamoor, I have two little questions 
to ask you. If you consent to speak, and 
if you are veracious, my left hand shall 
take upon itself to recompense you for 
your first answer, and my right hand for 
the second.” 

Pamela made a sign of the head that 
indicated entire acquiescence in the pro- 
posed bargain, which was just to her 
taste. 

“ In the first place, do me the favor to 
tell me who is this soi-disant guardian 
with whom your mistress talked so long 
upon Mount Oliveto. I distrust that per- 
sonage: he is a shop that bears a false 
sign.” 

“ You deceive yourself,” replied Pa- 
mela. “M. Ferray is a real guardian, a 
very crabbed, very brutal monsieur, at 
whose house my lady placed mademoi- 
selle to board. She detests him, this 
guardiaij, and treats him like a contempt- 
ible pedant. She has made him come to 
Geneva so that he may dissuade my lady 
from marrying her to M. de Boisgenet. 
He has obeyed with a very bad grace. 
He is an owl that she will send back to 
his cage as soon as she has no more need 
of his services.” 

“ Your answer ravishes me ; it is worth 
its weight in gold,” cried the prince; 
“ but now answer my second question. 
For what purpose do you come stealthily 
to the Chartreuse d’Ema?” 

“ I would like to find that out myself, 
but I know nothing about it.” 

“ Can a girl so wide awake as you be 
ignorant of any thing?” 

“Mademoiselle is distrustful: she tells 
me only what she pleases.” 

“Is this the first time you have come 
here?” 

“ The first.” 

“ And under what pretext? ” 

“ Under the pretext, that the prospect 
is beautiful, and that, after having dis- 
puted with her guardian, mademoiselle 
feels the need of taking a little air.” 

“ Without reckoning, that, in the hu- 
mor in which we now are, we have always 
adored the Carthusian friars. Corpo di , 


Bacco! I am going to assure myself 
what this means.” 

He had already his right foot in the 
stirrup, when the negress called out to 
him, “Here she is!” and she pointed to 
Meg, who had just re-appeared at the 
outer door of the cloister. 

“She is alone: she is carrying off none 
of the Carthusian friars,” said the 
prince: “now I shall be tranquil until 
to-morrow.” 

And throwing the ten pieces of money 
to Pamela, he added, “ I must fly, charm- 
ing brunette; be faithful to me, and, if 
I lose my suit with your mistress, it is 
you who shall console me.” 

Thereupon he put spurs to his horse ; 
while the negress, charmed with this 
little conversation, occupied herself in 
concealing the money in her pocket, and 
at the same moment she enclosed in her 
heart a savory hope which was hence- 
forth to nestle there eve and morn. 

Night was falling when handsome 
Sylvio returned home. He dined alone, 
or rather with no other company than a 
photograph of Miss Meg, which he had 
obtained through the obliging interven- 
tion of Pamela. It had cost him one 
hundred crowns and some cajolery ; for, 
to obtain the least favor from Pamela, 
liberality always had to be seasoned with 
a little sentiment. He gazed for a long 
time at this photograph; it said to him 
very nearly the same words that Florizel 
said to Perdita: “When you speak, my 
dear, I desire to hear you speak forever ; 
if you happen to sing, I wish to see you 
go, come, do alms, pray, rule your house, 
and do every thing singing ; if you begin 
to dance, I would gladly have you a 
wave of the sea, so that you might dance 
forever.” Sylvio, the gamester, had 
never been in love, only by short attacks, 
by fits, or through a resolution to console 
himself for ill luck at play. This time 
he felt himself seriously ill ; he probed 
his wound, and judged it deep. 

Toward midnight he returned to his 
circle. He was tardy; his friends were 
awaiting him, and to relieve their anxie- 
ty, they drained forced beakers, discuss- 
ing forced subjects, which were not 
those that interest metaphysicians. 
After having talked of the carnival, of 
horses, and actresses, they had come to 
learned dissertations upon Miss Kovel. 
They emulated each other in extolling 
her beauty; their admiration spoke a 
language where exactitude contended 
with enthusiasm, and which contained 
more magic than any poet’s numbers. 
The youtii of to-day have given the study 
of woman a place in the category of the 
exact sciences. 

“ She is channing,” said an officer of 
cavalry who was devouring his mustache 
as he spoke ; “ but, although I would not 


44 


MISS KOVEL. 


offend you, I must insist that her mother 
is more beautiful.” 

“ Strange taste to prefer a setting moon 
to a rising sun,” responded Duke Lisca. 

“ There is no moon which remains,” 
replied the officer. “Lady Rovel has 
incomparable shoulders, and for me the 
shoulder is the woman.” 

“Just as in man it is the epaulet,” 
returned Lisca. 

“Let the classic beauties perish !” 
cried the American Hopkins. “ Lady 
Kovel is an Olympian goddess, and her 
place is in a museum.” 

“What an insupportable creature she 
is!” said in his turn a young Florentine, 
the Marquis Silvani, who would have 
been very well had it not been for his 
hooked nose; “ the disdainfulness of 
that woman is revolting. From the 
height of her glorious adventures, she 
regards us all as smoke. You will see 
her quit Florence without having had 
the least fantasy here.”’ 

“Are you astonished at this?” asked 
Hopkins. “ Her love is the holy sacra- 
ment ; she has found no person here who 
is in a state of grace.” 

“ Great good would it do us I” returned 
Silvani. “ This Juno walks upon the 
clouds; her kneeling lovers must with 
one hand hold a starry canopy over her 
head, and with the other brush the dust 
from the clouds. This certainly is not 
amusing.” 

“They are too sour, Silvani!” re- 
marked sneeringly a French secretary of 
legation. “Confess that you have tried 
to nibble at these grapes.” 

“ I do not deny that,” replied he with 
some vexation. “From my first sigh, 
they have tried to make me understand 
that such treasures are beyond my reach. 
I have not taken offence at it; it is a 
method of teaching me that I am not a 
reigning prince; that is nothing to be 
ashamed of.” 

“Nonsense, my dear fellow! You 
have not learned to put a good face upon 
a bad game. You other Italians run 
after every handsome woman you meet; 
and, if she happens to be honest, we see 
you fall like poisoned flies.” 

“That is a little rough,” replied Sil- 
vani. “What are you waiting for, if it 
is your pleasure to canonize this saint?” 

“ I hold to what I have said ; it is not 
an easy matter for any man to install 
himself into Lady Kovel’s good graces.” 

“ I propose a toast to Miss Kovel,” 
cried Hopkins. “ That little girl resem- 
bles this keg of Cyprian wine which prom- 
ises the most joyous intoxication to him 
who drinks it. She has only one fault: 
she is in no humor to let one drink.” 

“It is the Marquis de Boisgenet who is 
going to bottle up this wine,” said Sil- 
vani. 


“Do not speak of that odious simple- 
ton,” responded Duke Lisca. “ Gentle- 
men, shall you allow him to perpetrate 
this crime ? Will there be no one to in- 
terfere with his designs ? ” 

“ You understand nothing at all about 
it, Lisca,” exclaimed Hopkins. “ The 
other day I saw a she-goat consumed by a 
desire to cross a brook, but the poor thing 
feared lest she might be drowned. She 
went bleating on in search of a ford. 
Do you understand this apologue ? The 
ford is marriage, and it is the Marquis de 
Boisgenet who will make the goat pass.” 

“All honor to Boisgenet!” cried Sil- 
vani. “ This calumniated dotard is a mis- 
understood philanthropist ; he glows with 
love for his neighbor, and sacrifices him- 
self for the general good. He takes it 
upon himself to teach Miss Kovel that 
she has a heart.” 

“ Timeo Danaos dona ferentes” re- 
turned Duke Lisca. “We shall be for- 
ever lost to honor if we let this virgin 
fall into the clutches of that Minotaur.” 

“Why, then, do you not marry her your- 
self, — you who speak so finely? ” asked 
Silvani. 

“Impossible, my dear friend; I am de- 
pendent upon a great-aunt who would 
disinherit me if I were to give her a here- 
tic for a niece.” 

“Well gentlemen,” said Hopkins, “a 
certain individual of my acquaintance is 
capable of this beautiful act of self-devo- 
tion.” 

“Who is it? Name him!” was the 
cry from all sides. 

“ Not so fast, gentlemen. He is a su- 
perb fellow, but he has a fiery brain and 
a decided taste for master-strokes. He 
has let himself be caught, he is in love, 
he will marry. Hush ! When we speak 
of the wolf” — 

At this moment Prince Natti entered. 
A general clapping of hands followed. 
“ Viva Sylvio ! Bravo, Natti ! ” they cried 
with all their might. “ The order of the 
Annonciade and the crown of Italy to 
Sylvio ! ” 

The prince opposed a disdainful front 
to this uproar. He went and took his 
seat at the round table, pushing his 
neighbors so as to obtain more elbow- 
room; then, having extended his arms 
over the cover, he demanded in an icy 
tone, to what he owed the honor of this 
unexpected ovation. When he had been 
informed, he replied, “ Good heavens, 
gentlemen ! to tell the truth, I should be 
capable of marrying Miss Kovel ! ” 

“ Her mother will never give her to you, 
my fine bird,” said Silvani. 

“Why not?” 

“ Because you are handsome as an 
' Apollo, and she has resolved to give her 
daughter’s hand to a little baboon ugly 
i and wrinkled as this Boisgenet. That 


MISS ROVEL. 


45 


terrible woman insists that her future 
son-in-law shall bear written upon his 
forehead in large capitals, the fact that 
his wife need have no cause to be jealous 
of her superior charms.” 

“You reason like Machiavelli,” re- 
plied Sylvio; “ but you forget that I am 
a man no wife could trifle with.” 

“ And, if you marry,” asked Hopkins, 
“may we know how you will manage 
your wife?” 

“ I shall take her to my estates in 
Sicily.” 

“ To keep her there in a private pris- 
on?” 

“ You have said it, Yankee of my 
heart.” 

“But you will invite us to come and 
see you now and then?” cried Silvani, 
passing his hand over his hooked nose. 
“ It is a fine hunting region, those estates 
of yours.” 

“ Two days before my marriage,” re- 
plied Sylvio, “ I shall take care to quarrel 
with ail my friends ; and, much as you are 
to me, I shall forget you, even to the 
shape of your noses, although thei-e are 
some among your number which would 
make the glory of a menagerie.” Then, 
having thrown a provoking glance upon 
all around him, he added in a tone half 
serious, half ironical, “ Let it suffice to 
say, that whoever permits himself to 
make remarks upon Miss Rovel, my in- 
tended wife, will have to settle with me.” 

This declaration threw a chill upon the 
company. Prince Natti passed for one 
of the first swordsmen in Italy ; and he 
was known as a man who would fight it 
out for a No, or for a Yes. Meg was for- 
gotten, and the cards were brought. The 
prince had prfbdigious luck to-night; and 
despite the proverb, when he returned to 
his lodgings at dawn, all augured well for 
his amorous projects. 


VII. 

The first night which Raymond passed 
in Florence was very much agitated. He 
had a sort of nightmare. He dreamed 
that his only property consisted of an old 
oak clothes-press, and that he wished to 
sell it with all that it contained. But 
what it contained was Meg. Suddenly 
he discovered that Meg had multiplied 
herself; there were at least a dozen of 
her, all pretty as a dream, and resembling 
each other in all respects, save that some 
had blonde souls, and the others black 
souls. He mounted guard before his 
buffet; but, however great his vigilance 
might be, one of the prisoners always 
found means of escape. He had to^ run 
after the fugitive, and this was diflicult 
enough. 

A customer presented himself ; uncer- 


I tain as to his choice, he passed in review 
the blondes and the brunettes, cast tender 
! glances at them, took them by the 
chin. Raymond, in dealing with the 
scoundrel, grew dark and red with anger. 
Another amateur, less familiar, offered to 
buy the whole assortment in a lump. 
Raymond gave him the preference ; then, 
by a caprice that he could not explain, 
he changed his mind, declared that he 
wished to sell only the eleven Megs, and 
to keep the twelfth with the clothes- 
press, Seeing that his destiny was to 
possess eternally a clothes-press which 
enclosed a little girl. The buyer rebelled, 
they came to words, and to dispute is 
quite as fatiguing as to run. The bargain 
was not concluded when Raymond awoke 
very weary with having run, worried, and 
disputed so much. 

As soon as he awoke to his senses, he 
bethought himself that his dream could 
not come true, as Meg had a long time 
ago left his buffet ; but he became fully 
conscious, that there was in this part of 
the world a certain M. de Boisgenet, who 
wished to marry her, that for such a 
man a pretension of this kind was absurd 
and revolting, and that he, Raymond, 
ought to know how to frustrate it. He 
was astonished at the warmth with 
which one so indifferent to Meg’s fate as 
himself embraced this resolution. What 
mattered it to him, after all ? 

His toilet finished, he sat down near 
his window, and passed an hour in con- 
templating the hills he had gone over 
yesterday, and Avhich, enveloped in a 
silvery gauze, detached themselves boldly 
from the towers, the steeples, the cu- 
polas, and the flattened arches of Trinity 
Bridge. While his eyes peered into this 
luminous vapor, he felt ever growing 
within him a desire to foil M. de Bois- 
genet. Is it not a diversion to a misan- 
thrope to mortify a fool ? 

Yesterday he had learned from his 
ward, that Lady Rovel breakfasted early, 
and that she was always visible before 
noon. As soon as he had breakfasted, 
he started for her house. The valet de 
chambre announced his name in a voice 
so indistinct that it was not understood 
by Lady Rovel. She wa,s half reclining 
upon a divan. Mirette, who had been 
sleeping at the lady’s side, barked furi- 
ously at Rajmiond. The pug-dog’s mis- 
tress silenced her with a menace of her 
fan, and, without change of position, 
she made a sign for the visitor to 
advance to her sofa. They passed 
some instants in gazing at each other. 
Raymond was astonished at finding Lady 
Rovel so like herself; by some favor of 
Heaven, this miraculous beauty, which 
had just doubled the cape of forty, was 
sheltered from the ravages of time. If 
my lady felt herself bound to use some 


46 


MISS ROVEL. 


procaiitionji, none perceived them; and, 
even when these sliould become percepti-. 
ble, there would remain to her that which 
the years could not take away, — those 
superb outlines, that most beautiful 
figure in the world, that haughty, domi- 
nating glance, that lofty nonchalance, that 
grand sultana air. 

But this sultana had all sultans in her 
train. The hero of her last adventure 
had been a petty German prince; but 
after following him to France and Eng- 
land, after passing a season in his capital. 
Lady Kovel had become disenchanted, 
and since then the whole universe had 
seemed to contain nothing worthy of her 
condescension. The new illusion ended, 
life had ever since appeared to her a 
cage against whose bars she beat in vain. 
And now the imprisoned lioness cast 
around her those melancholy eyes which 
had renounced their search for a lion. 

The parlor was a little dark, and Lady 
Kovel did not at once recall Kaymond’s 
features. Suddenly her brow cleared, 
and, extending her hand, she exclaimed, 
“Ah! is it you, monsieur? Is it true 
that you have been to Mecca?” 

“Yes, madame, and that I have re- 
turned.” 

“ Safe and sound? ” 

“With a little sang-froid, one can 
always make his way.” 

“You were disguised as a dervish?” 

“Yes, madame.” 

“ And, if they had discovered you, they 
would have killed you?” 

“ Most certainly they would have pon- 
iarded me: the Mussulmans are not 
tender of dogs or Christians.” 

She drew herself up suddenly, and 
murmured between her teeth, “A great 
achievement, indeed! This man looks 
like a gentleman!” She spoke in Eng- 
lish, which Kaymond thus translated into 
French, for his particular instruction: 
“ C^est une belle prouesse en verite, et 
cet homme a la tournure d’un genfil- 
homme.’’ She added in French, “ I wish 
you would relate to me your pilgrimage 
from beginning to end.” 

“ Very willingly, madame,” replied he ; 
“ but first allow me to acquit my con- 
science.” 

She frowned. “Oh! I know what it 
is. Meg has told me that she met you 
yesterday upon Mount Oliveto. She has 
told you her little stories: she has suc- 
ceeded in prejudicing you against M. de 
Boisgenet, and you rush to me with your 
spleen. This does not astonish me. You 
are the most contradictory man in the 
world, and I ought to have forbidden you 
to enter my doors ; but I am indulgent to 
pilgrims.” 

“I am not at all exasperated,” replied 
Raymond; “ but I confess to you that a 
marriage so ill-assorted” — 


“Is an absurd project which could 
have been born only in a disordered 
brain,” interrupted she; “the marriage 
will take place: you may rely upon that.” 

“It will not take place, madame: you 
may be sure of that.” 

“You are right; it will not take place, 
because it has the same as taken place 
already. It is all arranged.” 

“I do not believe it; but, if arranged, 
it must be disarranged.” 

“ What impertinence ! ” exclaimed Lady 
Kovel. “ Have you sworn to put me in a 
passion ? I do not allow any one to con- 
tradict me.” 

“Contradiction, madame, is a less evil 
than repentance.” 

“ I never repent of any thing ; but, come 
now, what has this poor marquis done 
to you?” 

Kaymond was proceeding to give full 
expression to his ideas as to the character 
of the marquis, but she cut him short, 
protesting that M. de Boisgenet was an 
accomplished man, wonderfully youthful 
and well preserved for his years, very 
well informed, very witty, well versed in 
business and in the sale of laces; fur- 
thermore declaring that she should al- 
ways be delighted to have at her disposal 
his obliging services, and his good coun- 
sels. 

“For the sake of pleasing you, mad- 
ame,” replied Kaymond, “ I grant that the 
marquis will be the best of sons-in-law ; 
the misfortune is that he cannot become 
your son-in-law without becoming at the 
same time the husband of your daughter, 
and that your daughter does not want 
him. This entirely changes the aspect 
of the question.” 

She gazed at him for an^Wnstant in si- 
lence: then, bursting into a shrill laugh, 
she cried, “Ah, monsieur, have you not 
yet discovered that I love only myself 9^^ 

Raymond remained as if stunned at 
this declaration of pidnciples so little 
veiled. He bowed low. “Here is an 
avowal,” said he, “ which closes my 
mouth.” 

“And I — I wish you would speak,” 
replied she, “ so that I may have the 
pleasure of replying to you, and of prov- 
ing to you that you have not common- 
sense.” 

“ I will ccmfess it, if you wish, this very 
instant. After all, let M. de Boisgenet 
marry or not marry, it is just the same to 
me.” 

“And I do not wish it should be all 
the same to you,” replied she, warming 
up. “ What does that mean ? Meg is not 
a stranger to you. She pretends that you 
consider yourself in some sort her guar- 
dian.” 

“Ah! with your permission, madame, 
as a free guardian.” 

“I do not love the indifferent,” replied 


MISS ROVEL. 


47 


she. “ Tliis discussion is on a subject 
the least wearisome in the world. I con- 
sent to impart to you my motives for 
hastening Meg’s marriage. Meg is giddy 
and rattlebrained; she has a very com- 
promising freedom of voice and manner; 
and, if I leave the rein loose upon her 
neck much longer, she will commit some 
freak which will render her unmarriagea- 
ble. Her foolish brother, whom I will 
never see again so long as I live, came to 
Lucerne to tell me that I was rearing her 
badly, and, before returning to Barbadoes, 
this august monseigneur deigned to ad- 
vise me from Liverpool, that he placed 
his sister’s future upon my conscience. 
Ah, well ! I do not wish to reply to him, 
and I believe I shall make him happy by 
marrying her to a man expert in many 
things, and who possesses some for- 
tune.” 

Raymond was about to reply, when the 
door of the. salon opened, and M. de 
Boisgenet appeared. “You have arrived, 
then, marquis,” cried Lady Rovel. “ This 
is M. Raymond Ferray, who is in process 
of demonstrating to me that I shall be a 
fool to bestow Meg’s hand upon you.” 

The marquis was as chagrined as as- 
tonished, to find Raymond installed in his 
place. He could scarce keep his counte- 
nance. Although he was only a little 
taller than a boot, this tiny man was a 
complicated enough machine. He was 
born prudent and passionate, two entirely 
opposite qualities. Very much attached 
to his interest, to his repose, to the pres- 
ervation of his puny person, and like 
Panurge naturally fearing blows, he could 
not help having pregnable eyes and heart, 
a quick, boiling temper; and, when fire 
was set to this powder, the explosions of 
his tenderness or of his bile made his 
prudence leap into the air, and it did not 
always fall back upon its feet. In per- 
ceiving RajTiiond, he felt an old rancor 
awake in his heart, which had never 
found opportunity to avenge itself. Hav- 
ing thrown a lowering glance upon the 
intruder, he said to Lady Rovel, “I am 
sorry to have incurred the displeasure of 
Monsieur Ferray ; the misfortune is that 
I do not know who Monsieur Ferray 
is.” 

“You are very ungrateful, monsieur,” 
replied Raymond. “ Have you, then, for- 
gotten that I met you one day upon a 
highway? You were badly seated, and I 
obligingly aided you to descend from your 
horse.” 

“I remember that hour,” replied he 
with a grimace. “ Urgent business affairs 
obliged me to leave Geneva before having 
it in my phwer to repay your kindness. 
But yoii deceive yourself ; I am not un- 
grateful, and I am here ready to pay my 
debt.” 

“It is too late,” replied Raymond; “for 


twenty-four hours I awaited your thanks. 
A re-warmed dish never amounts to any 
thing.” 

“ Ah well ! what signify these riddles ? ” 
asked Lady Rovel. 

“M. de Boisgenet will doubtless do 
himself the pleasure of explaining them 
to you,” replied Raymond. “I will be 
silent, and let him speak.” 

“Marquis, explain yourself!” cried 
she ; then, hastily interrupting herself, she 
cried, “ Why have you put on your sky- 
blue cravat ? You know I cannot endure 
it.” 

M. de Boisgenet was too much excited 
to stop to plead the cause of his blue 
cravat. Rolling his formidable eyes, he 
cried, “Monsieur, if you should make up 
jmur mind to render me some new service 
of the same kind, I swear to you that the 
expression of my gratitude shall not be 
delayed.” 

“ it is a test to which I am very glad to 
submit,” returned Raymond; “and the 
new service which I would render you 
shall be to save you from the ridicide 
which will not fail to overwhelm you in 
marrying, against her will, a young girl 
who has good reasons for not loving 
you.” 

M. de Boisgenet was just ready to fly 
into Raymond’s face, but he bethought 
himself of a certain iron hand which had 
one day shaken him rudely enough. 
Turning to Lady Rovel, he asked, “ How 
long is it, madame, since M. Ferray has 
had a voice in this matter? How long 
since you have allowed him to dispose of 
your daughter’s hand at his plea.sure?” 

“ Lady Rovel herself,” replied Ray- 
mond, “ wishes me to say to you that 
she is most grateful to you for the honor 
your suit does her daughter, but that she 
implores you to cease it from this day.” 

Lady Rovel started. “ Oh! this passes 
beyond all bounds,” she cried, glowing 
with indignation. “ Monsieur Ferray, 
you strangely forget yourself, and I am 
not surprised at it, for, since the first 
moment I saw you, you have been my 
pet aversion. Did any one ever see such 
insolence? The idea of your taking 
such liberties in my affairs! By what 
right do you speak in the tone of a mas- 
ter? I shall very effectually teach you 
who rules here, and that Lady Rovel 
gives orders, but does not receive them.” 

This energetic apostrophe threw M. de 
Boisgenet into transports. By turns, he 
darted triumphant glances at Raymond, 
and contemplated Lady Rovel with an 
air of profound gratitude. He supposed 
that she was about to turn this insolent 
fellow out of doors. Imagine his sur- 
prise, imagine his dismay, when, in the 
midst of her tirade, she interupted her- 
self by crying out, — 

“Decidedly, marquis, your sky-blue 


48 


MISS ROVEL. 


cravat is insupportable to me ! Go, 
quickly as possible, and change it, and, 
while you are on your way, give Mirette 
an airing; it seems to me that you have 
been neglecting her of late.” Then, 
turning to Raymond, she said. — 

‘‘ Monsieur Ferray, conduct me out to 
make a tour of ‘the garden, and you can 
tell me all about Mecca.” 

She took his arm, and they passed out 
into the garden, where they had a long 
Ute-h-tete. Bound by his honor, and 
firmly resolved to win the game against 
M. tie Boisgenet, Raymond took some 
pains to conciliate the good graces of 
Lady Rovel. He replied eagerly to all 
her questions; he told her all about 
Mecca, and the dangers he had run. 
Although Lady Rovel remarked nothing 
of his motive, she listened with pleasure 
to this recital which opened before her 
new horizons. From time to time, she 
detached her eyes from her fan to cast 
upon the narrator a long, penetrating 
glance, which was to transpierce him 
through and through. Perhaps she was 
seeking the solution of a problem she had 
just set before herself ; perhaps she was 
saying, “Is it certain that this man in no 
way resembles any thing I have seen imtil 
to-day?” Perhaps she was only glad to 
while away one hour of the ennui which 
consumed her. Very clever must he be 
who would have been able to read the 
secrets upon that marble visage ! 

Raymond was returning from Mecca to 
Hjeddah, life and baggage safe, when 
Lady Rovel said to him, “ Apropos, why 
are you so opposed to Meg’s marrying M. 
de Boisgenet? You have confessed that 
you are indifferent to the little one your- 
self.” 

“ Assuredly, I have not a tender heart,” 
replied Raymond. “I will confess to 
you that I should more easily resign my- 
self to Miss Rover s unhappiness, than to 
M. de Boisgenet’s happiness.” 

“ You detest him? ” 

“ Not as an individual, but as a species. 
One happy fool is enough to spoil the 
universe for me.” 

“That is well spoken!” said she; “I 
love people who have hatreds. Besides, 
I confess that the cravats of this man are 
odious; but, as for the rest, I persist in 
maintaining that he is an excellent 
match.” 

“ On the contrary, he is detestable: you 
know it as well as L” 

“What stubbornness!” said she, tap- 
ping her foot. “ Has Meg another to 
propose to me ? Has she made you her 
confidant? She must have some ridicu- 
lous love-affair in her head.” 

“ She has none at all, madame,” re- 
plied he quickly. 

“ Has she told you so?” 

“ In the gross.” 


“Make her reduce it to detail; these 
little girls always get caught at the details. 
Meg is a sly puss ; you must cross-ques- 
tion her.” 

“I consent to that; but it is settled, 
that, from this moment, M. de Boisgenet’s 
suit is rejected, and he condemned to the 
costs of the trial.” 

“Not at all. Hear me well; one of 
three things must happen: Meg must 
marry him, or she must present me some 
other acceptable son-in-law, or I shall put 
her at a boarding-school. It is of no use 
to ask me to keep her much longer with 
me; she will not fail to abuse the liberty 
I allow her.” 

It seemed clear to Raymond that upon 
this last point Lady Rovel was detennined. 
The reason she gave for not keeping her , 
daughter near her was good, that which 
she did not give was better still. Meg had 
two unpardonable faults ; she possessed a 
rather light head, and a beauty too much 
admired not to serve as the text for in- 
vidious comparisons. 

“ I should fear,” replied Raymond, 
“that Miss Rovel w'ould not prefer the 
galleys of a boarding-school; and, in any 
state of the case, it is plain that the mas- 
ter of the school would have trouble with 
her.” 

“You do not envy his lot? It is an 
employment which you would not sue 
for?” 

“ God forbid ! I have served my time.” 

“The best thing,” replied she, “will 
be for us to marry Meg, and let this be 
done once for all. Take the affair upon 
yourself.” 

“ And you ratify my choice in ad- 
vance?” 

“ Do not hold me liable for it, I im- 
plore; I distrust your idealities.” 

At this moment it was announced to 
Lady Rovel that visitors were awaiting 
her in the parlor. “ Come and pass the 
evening in my barrack,” she said to Ray- 
mond. “You can talk with that little 
girl, and perhaps you can extort from 
her her secret.” 

She nodded, and withdrew ; but, half 
way to the house, she turned around and 
cried out, “Day after to-morrow I am to 
give a mask-ball, and I wish you to 
come.” 

“ Ah, madame, what a cruel jest!” re- 
turned he. “I have never had any in- 
clination for the dance.” 

“ You are to have the inclination which 
pleases me ; I want you to do just once 
what I wish, and I demand that you 
appear at my ball in the costume of a 
dervish. It is a whim I have. If you 
refuse me, before three days Meg shall 
be the Marquise de Boisgenet.” 

“You shall be obeyed, madame,” said 
he with a bow. 

“ I very well know that sooner or later 


MISS ROYEL. 


49 


I shall end by teaching you how to live ! ” 
she said. And with these words she 
turned from him. 

Raymond had no sooner left Lady 
Rt)vel than he was astonished at him- 
self for having made two promises which 
he was very much inclined not to keep. 
The one rather humiliated him, the 
other rendered him much perplexed. 
Hercules, spinning at the feet of Om- 
phale, appeared to him a personage less 
absurd, less ridiculous, than the philoso- 
pher, Raymond Ferray, costuming him- 
self and masking himself to satisfy the 
whimsical fancy of an emxuyed English 
woman. On the other hand, he had en- 
gaged to confess Meg, to discover her 
secret, if peradventure she should have 
one. Last night he had left her, con- 
vinced that she had a perfectly free 
heart. He suddenly took it upon him- 
self to doubt this; and it caused him 
an uneasiness, an irritation, which he 
could not succeed in explaining to him- 
self. 

Upon re-entering his hotel, he had 
resolved to write an excuse to Lady 
Rovel, and to set out this very evening 
for Geneva. He began to pack his 
trunks; but the billet seemed to him 
difficult to write, and he considered that 
his abrupt departure would infinitely de- 
light M. de Boisgenet, who would per- 
haps imagine that it was from fear of 
him. With an air of melancholy he 
resigned himself to his fate. Having 
learned the address of a costumer, he 
passed five or six times before the shop- 
window without summoning resolution 
to enter. He found no deiwish cap to 
his liking, and decided upon a Bedouin 
costume. There was none which quite 
pleased him; he surprised himself criti- 
cising with the vivacity of an archaeolo- 
gist. Wlien one has an exact mind, he 
exercises it everywhere; perhaps, also, 
he judges that every thing which de- 
serves to be made at all deserves to be 
made well. Growing excited, he took a 
pencil, made a drawing, gave in a magis- 
terial tone his instructions to the cos- 
tumer, who promised to faithfully execute 
them; then he returned to dine at his 
hotel; and towards ten o’clock, having 
put on a white cravat, and donned a 
dress-coat which for a long time had 
been reposing in its folds, he repaired to 
Lady Rovel’ s rout. 

It is not difficult to find in Florence 
mlom where people converse; among 
these, one is justly celebrated; there are 
other very agreeable ones, where, to use 
the expression of a diplomat, they “ de- 
cameron,” that is, each in his turn tells 
a story, recites a poem, or sings a song. 

In Lady Hovel’s salon, the crowd of 
postulants disputed for two places: the 
one was of wholly fresh creation, and had 
4 


not yet been occupied; the other had 
already boasted numerous titularies, who 
had been for the most part brutally 
deposed, and for the hour the place re- 
mained vacant through the voluntary 
resignation of the last. The initiated 
alone had information as to the double 
games played upon these mosaic parquets, 
under these frescoed ceilings. All passed 
without noise, without eclat; the ambi- 
tious ones involved in underhand in- 
trigues trod gingerly, and laid their 
trains clandestinely. No one dared em- 
ploy iron and fire. 

As is often the case with women who 
have been much talked about. Lady 
Rovel held respectability in the very high- 
est esteem; she was exceedingly severe 
in the article of decorum, and with Argus 
eyes held a police guard over her public 
receptions. She tolerated neither an 
equivocal personage, nor an unbecoming 
familiarity; not a free proposal, nor a 
wanton gesture. Although she cared 
veiy little for public opinion, she ex- 
acted from all the highest regard for hers, 
and since her return from Germany she 
almost affected gravity. 

She had also united to this, a fanati- 
cism of quite another sort: she swore 
only by two or three masters, and de- 
spised ariettas. You heard at her house, 
beautiful chamber-music, to the great dis- 
pleasure of the Florentines, who have 
little taste for austerity in this amuse- 
ment. If any guest had allowed himself 
to whisper, or to balance his chair, during 
the execution of a quartet of Mendel- 
ssohn’s or Schumann’s, he would have 
been brought back to decorum by a sign 
from that imperial head, by one of those 
glances which devour their prey. In 
consequence of these very strict ideas. 
Lady Rovel’ s salon offered only moderate 
diversion to the young people, who, how- 
ever, did not cease to seek ardently for 
entrance here, as youth hopes always. 
Some flattered themselves that they 
might re-animate some smouldering fire- 
brand under the ashes of a benumbed 
heart; others came on Meg’s account. 
These latter were constrained to be very 
cautious in their demonstrations of ardor. 
Lady Rovel might have written over her 
doors, “ There is here only one God, and, 
like the God of Israel, he is glorious and 
jealous.” 

The reception she gave Raymond was 
very remarkable ; for a long time the god- 
dess had not seemed so much humanized. 
As soon as she saw him enter, her brows 
divested themselves of their perpetual 
cloud, she shook off her languor. Hav- 
ing motioned him to approach, she con- 
versed with him in so animated a tone, 
that M. de Boisgenet expressed the most 
violent resentment. Every now and then 
she would throw her flaming eyes upon 


50 


MISS ROVEL. 


Raymond, wlio remained insensible to 
her provocations. Happily for the mar- 
quis, Meg, after long delay, at last ap- 
peared in a robe of rose-colored silk, 
falling off from the neck and shoulders, 
the spring upon her cheeks, joy upon her 
forehead. Flaunting, frisking, strut- 
ting, her gait resembled the uncertain, 
tumultuous steps of a young priestess 
of Bacchus, who has still her role to 
learn. All eyes followed this apparition; 
she gazed at those who gazed at her, and 
seemed to say to them, “Ah, yes, I ex- 
ist; and it is a stroke of good fortune 
which I shall learn to profit by.” 

M. de Boisgenet, without losing a sec- 
ond, rushed up to Meg with the lordly 
authority of a proprietor who enters into 
possession, his authentic deed of pur- 
chase in his hand. He led her to a 
deserted corner of the salon, seated him- 
self at her side, and disposed his chair 
in such a manner that no one could ap- 
proach. After having overwhelmed her 
with compliments upon her beauty and 
her rose-colored dress, which so set off 
the lustre of her tawny blonde hair, he 
asked in a doleful tone how much longer 
she was going to amuse herself by making 
him suffer. 

“ I warn you,” said he, “ that I am the 
most obstinate of lovers. If you wish to 
get rid of me, have me poniarded at once 
by your guardian, whom, let me tell you 
by the way, I have proposed to fight, but 
the proposition does not seem agreeable 
to him. Be on your guard ; since his ar- 
rival here, your mother treats me coldly ; 
if the life of this man is dear to you, seek 
to cajole him, to prevail upon him to 
cease his opposition to my happiness. I 
do not conceal it from you, I am furious : 
I am burning to stanch my rage in the 
blood of ten professors of Arabic.” 

Meg listened to his grievances and re- 
proaches with more gentleness than she 
was wont to show him. She told him 
that he did wrong to get discouraged, that 
the inclinations of young girls are change- 
able, that they must gradually become 
reconciled to certain ideas, that the mast 
should be given time to ferment ; she as- 
sured him that a little fermentation was 
going on in her head with which he had 
no reason to be discontented ; and she im- 
plored him to leave' her guardian in 
peace ; he was a pedant to be sure, but a 
very respectable pedant, and, as for the 
rest, this professor of Arabic was an 
adept in the use both of the sword and 
pistol. Thus she lavished upon the mar- 
quis, at the same time, consolations, 
hopes, and good advice. 

The first half of her discourse charmed 
M. de Boisgenet : the peroration rendered 
him pensive. He promised Meg, that, to 
oblige her, he would control the trans- 
ports of his ungovernable fury, that there 

/ 


should be no bloodshed but, in return, 
he conjured her to fix a term to his per- 
plexities, to tell him truly, how many 
days she proposed to make him wait for 
her consent. 

He was destined to gain no light upon 
this matter. Lady Rovel, who had seen 
with an evil eye the unbecoming haste 
with which he had rushed to meet Meg, 
despatched a servant to inform him that 
one of her symphonists had failed to 
keep his word, and that she desired the 
Marquis de Boisgenet to go immediately 
in quest of a second violin; he should 
apply to the gendarmes, if necessary, and, 
in any event, bring the musician within 
an hour, dead or alive. 

The marquis, thus called upon to be 
his own executioner, departed very re- 
luctantly, even angrily. As soon as he 
had left. Prince Natti, -who was roaming 
in this vicinity like a ravenous wolf 
prowling around a sheepfold, took pos- 
session of Meg’s chair, and in his turn be- 
come her jailer. 

“ It seems to me, prince, that it is 
cloudy this evening,” said she. “You 
have not a limpid forehead. What is the 
matter?” 

“I have chagrins,” returned Sylvio. 

“Impart them to me. I am in a very 
good humor, I will console you. Have 
you lost at play?” 

“No, I am jealous.” 

“Of M. de Boisgenet: he is urgent, 
and I say to myself, that, all things con- 
sidered, it is necessary to come to a decis- 
ion.” 

“ It is not that imbecile who makes me 
uneasy: I am jealous of a Carthusian 
cloister.” 

“ Of all, from monsieur the prior, down 
to the lay-brothers and the porter ? 
There is a jealousy which ought to give 
you full occupation.” 

“Did you return to-day to the Char- 
treuse d’Ema?” asked he, still pursuing 
the main subject of his anxiety. 

“ Why should I have gone there ? ” 

“For the same reason Hhat led you 
there yesterday.” 

“ Must I tell you that reason ? ” 

“ Spare me, or I am a dead man.” 

“ Die then, my handsome fellow. I 
went yesterday to the Chartreuse d’Ema, 
to perplex a certain spy, who for several 
days has employed his afternoons in dog- 
ging my footsteps.” 

“ Is this really true ? ” 

“I never tell wrong stories when I 
have on my rose-colored dress.” 

“ In that case, it is joy to die, since I 
am in your eyes a man so important that 
you take pains to disquiet him.” 

“ Have you been really disquieted ? ” 

“What a question! You well know, 
that for a long time ” — 

“Hush!” said Meg, “I know what 


MISS ROVEL. 


51 


you are going to say. You are about to 
tell me that you adore me. But that is 
nothing, unless you adore me enough to 
marry me.” 

“ Do you demand that of me ? ” 

“ Mamma insists upon my marrying, 
and so must I,” replied she with a burst 
of laughter. 

“ Aias ! you well know that my mother 
will never consent.” 

“ Are you still harping upon that old 
string ? AYe can force people to wish what 
they do not wish.” 

“ And so you give me carte blanche f ” 

“ White as my hand.” 

“ That says all that could be desired. 
Very well. I shall take measures that 
will compromise you horribly.” 

“ What an idea! Will you climb up to 
me at night by a silken ladder?” 

“I shall do better than that: I shall 
elope with you. After such an escapade. 
Lady Rovel will be obliged to enter into 
some arrangement, and my mother can 
be induced to yield.” 

“How you go on! But really an 
elopement would be very delightful, very 
amusing. Do elope with me ! ” 

“ I w'ould give my life,” resumed Sylvio, 
after a pause, “ to know when you jest, 
and when you are in earnest.” 

“ If I ever succeed in finding out myself, 
I shall be sure to inform you first of all ; 
but we have talked too long. Ah, that 
guardian of mine, that terrible man! I 
pray you, yield your place to -him. My 
»urse has always told me that it is one’s 
duty to learn how to be ennuyed with a 
good grace.” 

Prince jYatti hastened to obey; but, be- 
fore withdrawing, he gazed steadily into 
Meg’s eyes, as if he flattered himself that 
he could see into their depths, and read 
what was written .there ; then he said to 
her, “ I am serious in all I have just been 
saying to you. You will allow me in 
memory of this interview to speak to you 
again not later than day after to-morrow 
evening. Masks set the tongue at liber- 
ty.” 

“You forget that I also shall be masked. 
Shall you recognize me ? ” 

“Your laugh will always betray you,” 
replied he, — “ your crystal laugh that 
throws me into despair, and which I 
adore.” 

Thus speaking, he withdrew, saluting 
Raymond as he passed along, with a 
courtesy which bordered on impertinence. 
Having gained the other extremity of the 
salon, he made his way to Lady Rovel, 
who showed him extreme coldness, scarce 
vouchsafing him three words. 

Meantime, Meg had beckoned to Ray- 
mond to seat himself in the vacant chair. 

“ Ah ! come here, my dear guardian,” 
she said, “ come shake hands with me. 
How I have longed to see you ! But you 


also have a sombre air. What new crime 
have I committed ? The bear, so natural- 
ists say, is very susceptible to anger, and 
his voice is one perpetual growl. Growl 
at me at once: it will relieve you.” 

“ I shall take care not to growl at you.” 
returned I^aymond. “ On the contrary, I 
must politely beg your pardon for having 
interrupted a conversation which ap- 
peared to amuse you so much.” 

“ Do you suppose we said any thing im- 
proper, Prince Natti and I ? It is not one 
of our habits.” 

“I have no idea what he could have 
said to you ; but I remark with pleasure, 
that he has the gift of interesting you.” 

“ ‘ Bark with wolves, and talk nonsense 
with fools!’ But, Plutarch aside, that 
is the true moral philosophy. I beg you 
to believe that what you are about to say 
to me interests me far more than the 
declarations of handsome Sylvio. You 
have seen mamma: has she listened to 
reason? ” 

“ I have obtained from her little more 
than a commutation of your punishment. 
You will either marry M. de Boisgenet, or 
you will be sent to a boarding-school.” 

“AYhat a horrible sentence! Heaven 
pity me ! This is heart-rending.” 

“ Listen to every word I say. Miss Ro- 
vel ! Your mother justly complains of the 
freedom of your manners. She has griev- 
ances on your account, which seem to 
me well founded. At the first new cause 
for displeasure you give her, she will con- 
fine you in some boarding-school.” 

“ Has she said sjo? ” 

“ Very plainly.” 

“AVhat a lot is mine, my dear guar- 
dian ! To be either the Marchioness de 
Boisgenet or a boarding-school miss for- 
ever ! ” 

“Yes, you must be one of these or the 
other, unless you can propose some match 
which will be agreeable to your mother.” 

“ Wliat would you say? I like that 
better. Ah, well ! Have I not delegated 
to you the duty of getting me married ? 
Cast your glances around you. Is there 
no person here who pleases you ? What 
think you of Prince Hatti ? ” 

“ He belongs to the race of debonair 
and clement bullies. His mustache says 
to the universe, ‘ See how good I am ! 
I do not eat you !’ ” 

“ And yet, he has one merit, that of 
loving me; he keeps repeating it to me 
every hour.” 

“ You know as well as I that basset is 
a very dangerous rival.” 

“ And what do you think of Marquis 
Silvani, of that little monsieur who raises 
himself on tiptoe to be seen by mam- 
ma? ” 

“ He is the last descendant of a degen- 
erate race. There remains in him just 
enough vital heat to live, but not enough 


52 


MISS ROVEL. 


to love. I do not know whether he has 
ever tried to take fire, but most surely he 
is extinguished.” 

“ And Duke Lisca, what do you say of 
him?” 

“That he is tall in stature, but low in 
appearance.” 

“And what of that American you see 
over there, abstractedly rolling a cigar 
between his fingers ? He would see fine 
sport if he should so forget himself as to 
light it.” 

“ I should say that he is very vulgar, 
but broad-shouldered and robust, and 
that he would allow his wife a great deal 
of liberty. This is perhaps the base of 
conjugal happiness.” 

“What a setting-out you give them 
all!” exclaimed Meg, “ and how discour- 
aging you are 1 ” 

“ The whole world is not here,” re- 
sponded he. “Is there truly no one 
else?” 

“No one,” replied she in a hasty tone. 

“ Are you very sure ? ” 

“ As sure as it is possible to be.” 

“I very much regret, Miss Rovel,” re- 
sumed Raymond with an amiable air, 
“ that there is in Florence no young man 
of good appearance and good principles, 
who has succeeded in touching your 
heart. Perhaps I should have pleaded 
his cause so well, that your mother would 
have yielded.” 

She was silent for an instant, crump- 
ling her fan between her .fingers in an 
embarrassed way. Then she asked sud- 
denly, “ It is not a trap? ” 

“Am I a man to set traps?” asked 
he. 

“ Do you promise to keep my secret?” 

“ I promise you,” said he with a slight 
tremor in his voice. 

“ Do you swear not to repeat what I 
am about to tell you, to mamma or any 
other person? ” 

“How many oaths must I make to 
you?” answered he in an impatient tone. 

“Ah, well! I do not know whether I 
love him, but I know that he pleases me ; 
when I see him, my heart beats with 
pleasure. I think of him often enough, 
twenty times a day, and two or three 
times during the night. Upon the whole, 
if it is not love, it is something very much 
like it.” 

Of wdiat was Raymond dreaming ? He 
perceived, a little too late, that he had 
scratched with his nails the pretty round 
table in Chinese lacque upon which he had 
placed his hand. “What is the name of 
this fortunate mortal?” asked he in an 
ironical tone. 

She stammered with downcast eyes, 
“He calls himself Mr. Gordon.” 

“ And who, I pray you, is this Mr. Gor- 
don?” cried he, and in a new absence of 
mind, with his right hand he unbuttoned 


his left-hand glove so hastily as to make 
a large rent. 

Meg informed him that Mr. Gordon 
w'as a young Scotchman, wdio appeared 
well-born, modest, of excellent manners ; 
that she had met him several times on 
the Cascino and elsewhere; that one 
evening, at the theatre, they had gazed a 
great deal at each other ; that the next day 
they had had occasion to exchange a few 
words ; that, two days later, he had ad- 
dressed her an ardent, but respectful let- 
ter, to which she had not hesitated to 
reply; that since then, she had received 
three other letters written in the same 
style ; that, in the last, he had implored 
her permission to present himself to Lady 
Rovel. She was beginning again to sound 
his praises, when Raymond interrupted 
her by demanding where this Mr. Gordon 
perched. She replied that the Char- 
treuse d’Ema always had some vacant 
cells which were rented to strangers, and 
that Mr. Gordon had chosen a domicile 
at the convent. She ventured to confess 
to Raymond that yesterday she had gone 
there to seek Mr. Gordon, but with the 
most laudable intentions, and for the sole 
purpose of returning his letters to the 
young Scotchman, and imploring him to 
write her no more. “ The poor fellow,” 
continued she, “ promised to obey me ; but 
there were tears in his eyes and in his 
voice; his sorrow touched my heart. 
We agreed that in a few days from this I 
shoufd send him through the post, either 
a jonquil or a basil ; that the basil would 
say to him, ‘ It is useless ; think no more 
of it ! ’ and the jonquil, ‘ Hope on : we 
shall see ! ’ ” 

Then she added, “ I have vowed, mon- 
sieur, to govern myself according to your 
advice. Do me the favor to go to-morrow 
to the cloister ; you can ask for Mr. Gor- 
don, you can say to him that you are 
curious to look around the convent, and 
that I pray him to place himself at your 
disposal. Thus you will have oppor- 
tunity to examine him at your ease, to 
make him talk. If he pleases you, I shall 
believe myself authorized to love him, 
and I will allow my heart to take its 
chosen course; if he displeases you, if 
you condemn him without appeal, you 
can place in his hands at leaving, a little 
sachet which I shall give you, and which 
contains some basil leaves. It is under- 
stood, is it not? You see that I place 
myself at your discretion ; and I state it 
as a fact, that, since the world began, 
never was ward more submissive to her 
guardian.” 

“So be it!” replied he in a softened 
tone; “you make me yield to all you 
wish ; but enough of this. Miss Rovel ; it 
is time to break off a conversation which 
is beginning to attract remark. ” 

They separated. Meg went to join a 


MISS ROVEL. 


53 


group; Raymond remained apart, his I 
back resting against a pilaster. M. de 
Boisgenet had succeeded in forcing out, 
and bringing under the protection of a 
police-guard, a second violin. The con- 
cert began. Miss Rovel’s guardian was 
in musical mattery of the opinion of the 
Florentines; he little appreciated diver- 
tisements and semiquavers, which give 
one the headache. But, even if they had 
played Beethoven or Mozart, he would 
have listened only with one ear; he was 
dreaming of the visit he was to make 
to-morrow to a Carthusian cloister. As 
soon as possible, he went to pay his 
adieux to Lady Rovel, who asked if Meg 
had made him any revelation. 

“Madame,” said he, “I fear that I 
do not possess her confidence; but it 
seems more probable to me, that she has 
little to confide.” 

The next day, after breakfast, Raymond 
set out for the Carthusian cloister. He 
was armed with the two little sachets 
Meg had sent him this morning, one of 
which contained a withered jonquil, the 
other a sprig of basil. While trudging 
on his way, the thought occurred to him, 
that the commission he had to fulfil was 
either delicate or puerile, and that he 
had done wrong to assume it. He prom- 
ised himself to decide nothing, to leave 
things as they were, to take back both 
the basil and the jonquil ; and he began 
to recite, with some slight emphasis, the 
words of the good Palemon : — 

Non nostrum inter vos tantas componere lites. 

Virgil made him think of Lucretius. 
He called to mind some lines of the De Re- 
rum Natura, which he had recently trans- 
lated, and whose sense is very nearly as 
follows : “ Thou hast open eyes, thou be- 

lievest that thou livest, and yet thy life is 
already dead. Thou sleepest while awake, 
thy imaginations are dreams, thy hopes 
are phantoms. If thou art not ignorant 
of the cause of thy malady, thou wilt 
learn to know nature and her laws ; and 
from that day thou wilt taste the eternal 
repose which that nothingness promises 
thee, where man dreams no more. ” 

He had just recalled the last of these 
lines, when, arrived in sight of the con- 
vent, he perceived, on the declivity of a 
hill, flowering almond-trees, which wove 
a white woof before those rocks scorched 
and blackened by the sun. In contem- 
plating these almond-trees, whose beauty 
adorned the approaches of a Thebaid, it 
appeared to him, that, in spite of Lucre- 
tins, there was in this world something 
else than nothingness; that, if it is ab- 
surd to dream, spring gives reason to 
this folly ; and that nature keeps alive in 
deaf intelligences some unknown princi- 
ple, which persists in hoping still. 


I He had not yet solved this contradic- 
tion, when he reached the entrance of the 
cloister, which one might easily take for 
the access to a fortified castle ; and it is 
in fact a real fortress, this holy house 
encamped upon a rock, whose approaches 
resemble bastions united by a curtain. 
As everywhere in Florence, the graceful 
blends with the severe: each cell has 
leading from it a bit of garden, where 
flourishes an orange-tree. 

Raymond inquired for Mr. Gordon of 
a lay-brother, who hastened to conduct 
him into that part of the monastery re- 
served for strangers. A door opened, and 
he found himself in the presence of a 
young fellow of twenty-four years or 
more, a very pretty lad, slender, tall in 
stature, his chin shaded by a light blonde 
beard, which only heightened the effect 
of the clear, rosy complexion. His veiy 
youthful air astonished Raymond : he had 
represented to himself this Scotchman as 
entirely different, and could not at all 
imagine that he had just left the univer- 
sity, that he still bore upon his lips the 
milk of Oxford or of Cambridge. 

“Ah well!” thought he at first sight, 
“that is a doll whose head Miss Rovel 
would soon get broken.” He entered 
into conversation, stated his name and 
his titles, explained that Miss Rovel did 
him the favor to consider him her guar- 
dian, that he had expressed to her his 
desire to visit the Chartreuse, and that she 
had persuaded him to introduce himself 
on her account to Mr. Gordon. During 
this explanation, the young man blushed 
more than once ; he blushed easily. He 
volunteered his good offices to Raymond, 
led him around everywhere, showed him 
in detail the subterranean chapel, the 
frescos of Ampoli, the pictures of Fra 
Angelico. 

While on the way, they talked inces- 
santly, and both seemed equally curious ; 
if Raymond besieged his cicerone with 
questions, the latter, in his turn, seemed 
to study Raymond attentively. One 
would have said that they were two 
hunters, who, ranging the forest in com- 
pany, were less occupied with the par- 
tridges than with feeling each the pulse' 
of the other; it assuredly was not Fra 
Angelico which interested them the most. 

Although Raymond would have pre- 
ferred to deny it, he was obliged to con- 
cede that Mr. Gordon had very fine 
manners, and an air of distinction, of 
agreeability, a happy blending of reserve 
and abandon, of modesty and pride. To 
gentleness of manners, he added a clear, 
well-balanced mind, a stability of senti- 
ment beyond his age, and a staid dignity, 
a natural gravity, which rarely forsook 
him. He never laughed, but there was 
amiability in his smile. Although ren- 
dering him full justice, Raymond could 


54 


MISS ROVEL. 


not conceive how a girl so romantic as 
Meg had been impressed with these 
moderate attractions. Mr. Gordon was 
nothing of an Amadis, except that he 
was decidedly very young. Precocious as 
he was in mind and character, had he the 
strength to govern a little person who was 
neither docile nor submissive, and would 
have little taste for curb or rein ? Hav- 
ing well weighed the matter, Raymond 
was confirmed in his resolution to leave 
the affair in suspense, and to take back 
the two sachets. 

Their tour finished, Mr. Gordon re-con- 
diicted Raymond to his cell, where he 
offered him a collation. As they finished 
their flask of Montepulciane, the young 
man fell into a revery : he came out of it 
to ask, blushing to the whites of his eyes, 
“And so, monsieur, you are Miss Rovel’s 
guardian? Has she not given you con- 
fidences regarding certain letters which I 
have taken the liberty to write to her?’’ 

“And which you did wrong to send 
her,” interrupted Raymond. “Her 
mother might have intercepted them, and 
that would have been a bad thing for Miss 
Rovel.” 

“Since she has spoken to you, mon- 
sieur,” resumed he in an excited voice, 
“ be pleased to hear me in my turn. I do 
not yet know whether it is my good or 
my evil star which has led me to meet 
your ward in Florence; all that I can say 
is, that, from the first day I saw her, I 
have felt for her the most ardent love; 
and I am conscious that this passion, 
against which I have vainly struggled, 
will cause the happiness or the unhappi- 
of my whole life. I regret that my 
course has displeased you, but my inten- 
tions are irreproachable. Deprived of 
both my parents in early life, I am master 
of my actions ; my fortune is considera- 
ble, and I dare to say that I have not 
abused it ; like all the rest of the world, 

I have my faults, but I know nothing at 
all of vice, and I have never committed 
great follies. If the hand of Miss Rovel 
were granted me, I should feel myself 
pledged to consecrate to her foi-ever the 
best of my soul and of my thoughts. 

“ I confess to you that the reports cur- 
rent in regard to her have caused me 
lively perplexity; I have heard certain 
persons speak of her in very ill terms. 
But other judges, whom I believe more 
equitable and better informed, have said 
to me, that we ought to pardon in her 
some youthful impetuousness, some levity 
of conduct, for the sake of her perfect 
nobility of soul. They have affirmed to 
me, that she is above every low sentiment, 
above all petty calculations ; that her soul 
is generous, that her faults are the work of 
the education she has received, that a man 
who loved her and esteemed her could easi- 
ly correct and elevate her. It would de- ! 


pend only upon him to make of her a noble 
and accomplished woman, to establish in 
duty a will as yet uncertain of itself, but 
which would be faithful to her choice, 
and as resolute for the good as it might 
have been for the evil. As for the rest, 
monsieur, I should despise a man whom 
the fear of a little danger restrains from 
pursuing his fortune, and who would not 
say to himself, that these are gloi-ious 
risks, and that happiness is to be won by 
conquest.” 

These sentiments uttered in an emphat- 
ic and sincere voice, made the most vivid 
impression upon Raymond, and agitated 
the very depths of his soul. His emotion 
had a singular effect. Rising precipitate- 
ly from his chair, he replied in these few 
words: “ Monsieur, I entirely approve of 
your sentiments, which do you great hon- 
or. It is possible that Miss Rovel might 
be capable of sacrificing her faults to the 
man she loves ; the misfortune is, that up 
to this day she has not learned to love, 
for here is something she charged me to 
hand to you.” 

And, taking from his pocket the little 
bag which held the basil, he hastened 
to present it to Mr. Gordon, who opened 
it, and lost countenance. His face 
changed, his lips quivered : but he knew 
how to control the violence of his chagrin, 
and he said to Raymond with a melan- 
choly gentleness, “Please restore to 
Miss Rovel this poor spray of basil; I 
may not keep any thing which has be- 
longed to her.” He added, “Adieu, 
monsieur, I cherish no ill will against 
you. May your conscience bear you wit- 
ness, that, in speaking to me as you have 
done, you have only consulted your duty 
as guardian ! ” 

Raymond set out on the return to Flor- 
ence with opposing sentiments at war in 
his heart. He was a little ruffled at Mr. 
Gordon’s last words, and at an insinua- 
tion he dreaded fully to comprehend ; he 
was certain that he had a clear conscience, 
and had performed a good action, and yet 
he was abashed as if he had committed a 
bad one; he reproached himself with 
having been too harsh, and yet, upon the 
whole, he was more pleased than angry, 
more satisfied than repentant. 

Ra>rmond flattered himself into the be- 
lief that he desired nothing better than to 
find a good match for Miss Rovel; and 
this was true in theory, so long as the 
match sought so vainly was a creation of 
the reason, a metaphysical entity : but, as 
soon as he assumed form and visage, let 
him become Italian, French, English, 
marquis, prince, or let him be named Gor- 
don, and our fastidious guardian would no 
longer allow him to be spoken of. 

They relate, that a certain jeweller had 
hiniself fabricated a marvellous jewel of 
which he was exceedingly proud. He 


MISS ROVEL. 


55 


longed to sell this piece of merchandise, 
and produced it to, every new-comer ; but, 
did any one show a desire to purchase it, 
he threw all sorts of difficulties in the 
way; and, as the customer departed, he 
felt chagrined, and at the same time de- 
lighted, that the treasure remained on 
his hands. You would have very much 
astonished Raymond by comparing him 
to this jeweller ; and yet he took it upon 
himself to say, “ They are pleased with 
her; despite her faults, they think her 
charming ; and they do not suspect, that, 
e'xcepting her beauty, all there is in her 
amiable and precious comes by right 
from The Hermitage. Her graces were 
a diamond in the rough; it is we who 
have cut and mounted it.” 

Hence he concluded that he had the 
right to marry Miss Rovel to whomsoever 
seemed fitting in his sight, or, indeed, not 
to marry her at all ; and his ill humor he 
would fain despatch suitors to the devil. 

As soon as he arrived in Florence, he 
repaired to the Cascine, where Lady Ro- 
vel and her daughter usually drove at five 
o’clock. He perceived their carriage ar- 
rested in the midst of its course. Two 
horsemen and three pedestrians formed a 
circle around one door, paying their hom- 
age to' Lady Rovel, who, enveloped in her 
furs, replied to them with an absent air, 
and a somewhat crusty politeness. Meg 
had stepped out for a moment, to chat 
with two young girls, friends of hers. 
She left them unceremoniously as she 
saw her guardian approaching, and she 
ran to meet him. “ Ah, well ! ” cried she 
ill a vibratory and expectant voice. 

“ I have this instant returned from the 
Chartreuse d’Ema,” said he. 

“And what tidings do you bring me ? ” 

“ He is a mere lad, and I cannot take 
him seriously ; but he is so well-bred that 
I shall not permit you to amuse yourself 
at his expense. That you would be sure 
to do.” 

“But he pleases me very much,” said 
she with an aggrieved air. “You did not 
hand him the basil? ” 

“Did you not authorize me to do so ? ” 

He saw her visage change, and a ser- 
pent began to gnaw at his heart. Meg re- 
plied, “ You are rather brutal. Well, let 
it be as you wish ! We will try to think 
no more of each other.” She added, 
“ Did he keep the basil ? ” 

“What matters that to you?” asked 
Raymond, surprised at such a question. 

“ I would likeito know if his love for 
me is stronger than -his self-love. A 
heart very much infatuated would have 
carefully preserved such a relic.” 

“ I am sorry for you, but here it is,” 
returned Raymond. 

Her arms fell. “Well, then,” mur- 
mured she, “this poor fellow did not 
love me so much as he said.” Then, 


with a faint smile, she added, “ You are 
not at the end of your researches ; mam- 
ma’ s wish must be carried out, and you 
will have to look for another.” 

Having thus spoken, she returned to her 
young friends, and began to talk gayly 
with them ; but Raymond thought he per- 
ceived a little effort in her gayety, 
a gleam of fever in her eyes. 


VIII. 

To bestir one’s legs is oftentimes a 
method of diverting one’s thoughts. The 
next day Raymond went out at an early 
hour, and passed his time in roaming 
over Florence, that marvellous city, in 
which it seems as if nothing could be 
changed without spoiling it, but which 
the most intelligent mayors still find 
means of embellishing. He carefully re- 
viewed all that had impressed him during 
his first sojourn, visiting anew some of 
those palaces which have been compared 
to fortresses adorned by art. He contem- 
plated Sainte Marie Noumlle, the chefs- 
d’oeuvre of Ghirlondajo, Michael Angelo’s 
poems in marble, tiie Grisailles which 
Andrea del Sarto painted in the cells of a 
cloister of barefooted friars, the Saint 
George of Donatello, and his Little David 
with the rustic shepherd’s cap of the 
Apennines, holding in one hand the 
sword of the overthrown giant, and in the 
other the victorious sling. 

In the Badia he gazed for a long time 
at the handsome Saint Bernard of Filip- 
pino Lippi, who, occupied in writing, 
sees the Madoniia appear, and lets his 
pen fall; in the chapel of Brancacco he 
paused to admire the frescos of Masaccio, 
the Resurrection of Eutychus, Saint 
Peter Baptizing, and his Dispute with 
Simon the Magician, — compositions of an 
incomparable reality, whose personages 
are honest Florentine bourgeois, not fail- 
ing to move at their ease in the midst of 
the greatest events, and evidently born 
for the grandest situations. 

Raymond also visited the ancient quar- 
ter of Florence, the market, and that ven- 
erable stone boar with the paternal 
countenance, the good genius of the place, 
whom mothers and children emulate each 
other in honoring. In the evening, 
promenading on the quays, he found 
opportunity to admire one of those cit- 
ron-colored sunsets of which Meg had 
boasted to him. The horizon was of the 
most tender yellow with delicate shadings 
of gray and green; the cypresses of the 
Villa Strozzi "throwing their dusky silhou- 
ettes upon the background. The Arno, 
reflecting all these tints in its limpid wa- 
ters, bore its part in the lovely spectacle, 
and shared this festivity of the skies. 

Raymond recalled to mind that he was 


56 


IMISS ROVEL. 


to ‘‘ assist” at another fete, where he was 
expected to appear in an Arabic costume ; 
at the same moment he was forced to 
aver to himelf, that, if his legs were weary, 
neither Michael Angelo nor Masaccio 
had conjured up the disquietudes of his 
mind. lie returned to his hotel, and 
found that the costumer had kept his 
word. Toward eleven o’clock, he plucked 
up resolution to make his toilet. He 
thrust his feet into thick sheepskin san- 
dals, put on a silk robe, and a camel’ s-hair 
mantle embroidered with gold. He ad- 
justed upon his head a black peruke with 
long tresses, around which he twisted the 
keffie^ or white handkerchief, letting one 
end hang down his back, and the other two 
fall in front of his shoulders. Around the 
keffie, he wound a cord ; then he gazed at 
himself in the glass. The man he saw 
there, and who produced upon him the 
effect of an apparition, had passed two 
years in Arabia, absorbed in dreams of 
love which fortune had betrayed ; and this 
treason had rendered him a misanthrope. 
He thoroughly examined his own heart; 
and he made up his mind, that Madame 
de P. was nothing more to him, that he 
was astonished at himself for having ever 
loved her so much, for having so deeply 
regretted her, and so deeply cursed her. 
He also came to the conclusion, that this 
pretty woman was ugly in comparison 
with a young girl of seventeen and a half 
years, whom, night before last, he had seen 
enter a .saion, dressed in rose-color, and 
attract all glances. He very properly 
recalled to mind, that this beauty was his 
ward, that he had the. charge of getting 
her married, and that, as a preliminary, 
he had for three days past been endeavor- 
ing to disgust her with all the suitors 
who had at all struck her fancy. The 
situation was a strange one ; how should 
he withdraw from it ? He did not know, 
and, for the time being, he did not care 
to know. 

When Rajnnond entered Lady Rovel’s 
house, midnight had just struck, and the 
ball was at the height of its splendor and 
animation. He could scarce make his 
way through the motley array of masks 
that swarmed on all sides. There were 
Turks, Andalusians, Tartars, Laplanders, 
Hindoos, Chinese, and Burmans. Three 
salons, magnificently lighted, superbly 
decorated, formed a vast enfilade, upon 
which opened cabinets, whose doors had 
been torn from their hinges, and where 
amid garlands of light were hung all sorts 
of tropical plants. They were dancing in 
one of the salons ; the second was conse- 
crated to the joyous divinities, to amorous 
pursuits, to intrigue; in the third, all 
supped a la carte. Then there were little 
side rooms for the use of the timid and 
melancholy, for philosophers, and also 
for those happy couples who have nothing 


more to seek, because they have already 
found that for which they sought. 

It was the first time Raymond had 
been present at a mask-ball, and his first 
impression was a sort of superstitious 
terror. Nothing is more redoubtable to 
the imagination than the mask. That 
invisible visage which you try to define, 
does it prepare for you a temptation, a 
danger, or a cruel mistake ? Teat myste- 
rious glance which seeks yours, does it 
contain a promise or a menace? This 
unknown mouth, which all of a sudden 
has whispered two words in your ear, 
maybe possesses the secret of your des- 
tiny. This elevated finger, which afar 
off has made a sign to you, is, perhaps, 
your evil genius which has recognized 
you, and summons you* 

“ Faithful image of life ! ” thought Ray- 
mond, ‘‘ in so far as life deceives us, and 
we take its mask for a true visage. The 
day when life awakens us from our error, 
by showing herself to us as she is, we 
raise a cry of horror, and we escape de- 
spair only through the acquiescence of our 
moral natures.” 

In the midst of his reasoning, he per- 
ceived that people were staring at him a 
great deal ; not that his simple costume 
was particularly worthy of remark, but 
because he wore it to perfection. Amid 
this variegated throng, he was the only 
mask who had not a disguised air. He 
was Arab from head to foot ; Arab in his 
gait, in his manner, in the feline supple- 
ness of his movements, in that barbaric 
pride which had but yesterday formed 
friendship with the solitudes of Nedjed, 
and which in all places carried the desert 
with it. 

A Chinese approached to gain informa- 
tion as to our Arabian’s civil rank. He 
replied in the language of the Koran, 
that he loved not questions; and the 
questioner went away convinced that 
Lady Rovel had given herself the pleas- 
ure of inviting a real Bedouin to her 
ball. 

In virtue of this opinion, he kept 
the indiscreet at a distance; and, mak- 
ing himself a path through the crowd, 
he penetrated to the dancing salon. 
Leaning against a column, he first 
sought a glimpse of Lady Rovel. He 
easily recognized her in a stately Jap- 
anese empress, whose unbound hair, 
falling down her shoulders, was confined 
by a knot of brilliants. Her flowing, 
imperial vestments, draped with infinite 
art, enveloped her in a wavy mass of 
gauze and crape; her magnificent bro- 
caded mantle swept the floor. She held 
in her hand a fan of white cedar, and 
upon her head towered a diadem sur- 
mounted by triple bands of gold. Her 
crown betrayed her less than her counte- 
nance, and her grand air. In a masque- 


MISS ROVEL. 


57 


rade Lady Rovel enjoyed every advantage, 
and had no rivalry to fear. Her tournure, 
her unparalleled figure, her carriage of 
the head, the undulations of her swan- 
like neck, assured her an uncontested 
triumph. 

Raymond’s next concern was the dis- 
covery of Miss Rovel; he was about to 
give it up, when a joyous peal of laugh- 
ter raised a few steps from him, by a 
young Armenian princess, caused him to 
turn his head. He recognized that crys- 
tal laugh which Prince Natti considered 
so adorable, and so calculated to drive a 
man to despair. Meg had been most 
happy in the choice of her costume. 
Ample white trousers descended to her 
ankles; upon her bare feet were yellow 
morocco slippers. Her silk robe was 
confined at the waist by a sash with 
pendent fringes ; and above her robe she 
wore a large-sleeved jacket embroidered 
with silver. Her abundant hair, sown 
with flowers, sequins, and pearls, formed 
long plaits which wound around her neck 
and shoulders. Her little cap of chased 
gold, perched over her right ear, seemed 
made expressly to provoke gods and men. 

Meg was dancing a quadrille with a no- 
ble Venetian cavalier in a slashed doub- 
let with a great plaited ruif , and a plumed 
cap, his breast adorned with a rich chain 
of gold. This cavalier and his partner 
exchanged many glances through the 
sockets of their masks ; they would now 
and then whisper into each other’s ear, 
and Meg would laugh. For the second 
time Raymond felt a serpent bite at his 
heart. “ She has jested with me,” said he 
to himself; “it is not the Chartreuse 
d’Ema which lodges the enemy.” 

He left his column, and, passing into 
the adjoining salon, joined a group, 
where, jjerspiring great drops under his 
furs, a microscopic Kalmuc was thus 
haranguing in an assumed voice : — 

“ Gentlemen, the Empress of Japan is 
a noble empress whom I venerate ; but 
she has ruinous fancies which ere long 
will drain her strong-box dry. When she 
gives a fete, we have the most sumptuous 
bill of fare, she exhausts all her powers 
ill garnishing her salons with the whole 
flora of the tropics, and her cabinets are 
hung with vines from which you gather- 
grapes. Here is a little entertainment 
that will cost well on to fifty thousand 
francs. I fear that she will leave to the 
princess her daughter only a glorious 
memory, a straw-bed, and her debts.” 

“Oh, that villanous Kalmuc!” cried a 
tall young man with a figure very much 
like that of Duke Lisca. “ Why do you 
take pains to counterfeit your voice ? It 
is in vain for the cuckoo to change his 
register ; we recognize him by his shrill 
song.” 

This saucy interruption came very near 


leading to an altercation, prudence some- 
times being at the mercy of wounded 
self-love. Happily, the quadrille being^ 
ended, there was a great movement of 
passing from one room to the other; the 
surge bore on the Kalmuc, his rage, and 
his vengeance. To place his Oriental 
gravity beyond the reach of all confu- 
sion, Raymond withdrew into a corner, 
where he had not remained a long time, 
when a graceful Armenian, as if borne 
upon a w’^ave, floated over to him, coquet- 
tishly inclining her head. 

“My heart is stirred with emotion,” 
she said. “ What a handsome Abdallah 
do I see ! If his first word is to upbraid 
me, I will declare to the whole universe 
that this is the man I seek.” 

“Princess,” replied Raymond, “leave, 
I implore you, the Arabian at peace in 
his desert.” 

“ The desert is his domain,” replied 
she, “his delight, his dearest love; but I 
have the audacity to seek him here, for 
I wish him to scold me. Oh, sweet chid- 
ings, which like the dew from heaven 
fall alike upon innocent and guilty 
heads 1 Let us see. Monsieur Arab, how 
many misdemeanors have I already com- 
mitted this evening ? None at all, for we 
have promised our dear mamma to be 
staid as an image, and we shall reli- 
giously keep our word.” 

“And yet,” returned the Arab, “there 
is one misdemeanor with which a certain 
Carthusian would have the right to re- 
proach you; you are singularly prompt 
in consoling yourself.” 

“ That which is done, is done,” an- 
swered she, “and that which is done by 
you is well done. You have said to me, 
‘You must love no more,’ and I try to 
love no more. I take pains to divert my 
thoughts. It seems to me, in truth, that I 
have succeeded to-night. These masks, 
these flowers, these lights, this music, 
these sweet things they murmur into my 
ear, and, to crown all, an atrabilious and 
hypochondriac guardian, who deigns to 
watch over my virtue, and who -would re- 
store it to me if I should chance to lose 
it — indeed, what is there wanting to my 
happiness ? Ah, Seigneur Abdallah, how 
amusing it is to live ! ” 

“Very amusing indeed,” replied he in 
a bitter tone, “ especially for one who has 
no heart.” 

“Are you very sure that I have none at 
all ? It seems to me, for my part, that I 
have four of them, all beating anew, all 
demanding employment ; four, I tell you ! 
Do you want one of them ? If so, I will 
give it to you.” 

Twice he turned his head from right to 
left, and from left to right. “ Thanks 1 ” 
said he, “ I should feel some scruple as to 
rendering your collection incomplete.” 

“ Oh the charming Ai’abic character I 


58 


mss ROVEL. 


clied she. “Wliat amenity of soul he 
has! Do not open your eyes so wide; 
this evening we are two masks talking to- 
gether ; to-morrow I shall return to the 
most humble respect. I shall 'kiss the 
ground before you.” 

The orchestra struck up a ritournelle. 

“ To prove to you the immense esteem 
I have for you,” resumed she, “if you 
wish to dance this polka with me, I will 
break my engagement with the gentleman 
who has invited me.” 

“I beg to be excused!” said he with 
an evasive gesture; “you will pardon me 
for not disturbing your pleasures.” 

He started to withdraw, but, having 
gone some steps, he turned his head, and 
saw Miss Rovel entering the dancing-room 
on the arm of the same Venetian in the 
frilled riiif , who had the secret of making 
her laugh. Raymond felt himself in- 
vaded by a sombre melancholy, blent 
with a dumb resentment. Not knowing 
to whom to attribute it, he attributed it 
to all the world ; and to escape the noise, 
the merriment, the jubilant notes which 
chagrined his ear, he took refuge in a 
little gallery set apart for smoking, but 
which he found deserted, the smokers 
being all at supper. He threw him- 
self upon a divan, rested his elbow upon 
a cushion, his forehead in his hand, and 
plunged into a revery whose conclusion 
was, that if the hall where a certain 
Armenian girl was dancing with a Vene- 
tian had just taken fire, and if all it 
contained was about to perish in the con- 
flagration, he should perhaps feel some 
sorrow, but most certainly an immense 
relief. He was in the mood to torment 
himself over this case of conscience, like 
a dog gnawing at a bone, when he heard 
behind him an imperious voice saying, — 

“ At last I find a man, and this man is 
an enniiyed Bedouin.” 

He turned around, he arose. The 
Empress of Japan was gazing at him at- 
tentively, her arms crossed upon her 
breast. Drawing nearer she made a sign 
for him to be seated, and took her place 
at his side. “ Be frank,” she said : “ you 
are ennuyed exceedingly.” 

“ Your majesty does me wrong,” re- 
sponded he; “ does she not perceive that 
for a little while I would withdraw my 
feeble eyes from the dazzling splendor of 
the fete she is giving to her subjects? ” 

“ I have never loved bears who give 
themselves graces,” said she: “their 
trade is to growl, and every one should 
remain true to his nature. Confess that 
you are a great deal displeased with what 
you see and hear ; confess also that you 
are very proud.” 

“Ah, madame, I am assuredly so at all 
times when you deign to occupy yourself 
with me.” 

She struck a sharp blow upon the divan 


with her fan. “ I tell you, I myself, that 
your pride is insupportable, and that 
in this you somewhat resemble me. We, 
you and I, are two proud hermits, and it 
is from this sword that we shall die.” 

“ So be it 1 What matters it ? ” 

“Let us either die immediately, or 
marry our mutual prides, our solitudes, 
and our ennuis. There are bad viands 
which, adroitly mixed, sometimes make 
good enough dishes.” 

“This supposes a skilful cook, and I 
am the worst of spoiled sauces.” 

“Who asks you to mix yourself in? 
You will unite with me in this matter. 
I wish to try once again to get rid of my 
ennui; and I have a desire to perform 
some extraordinary feat in conjunction 
with you.” 

“Very well, madame. Shall we go 
and seat ourselves together on the highest 
steeple of Florence?” 

“ That steeple would be only a jest. I 
have descended the Bernina. You do 
not guess where I wish to meet you ? ” 

“No, madame: I would like to find 
out.” 

“How lacking you are incomprehen- 
sion ! I have resolved to go with you to 
Mecca.” 

“There,” cried he, “is an enterprise 
fitted to endure and conquer difficul- 
ties ” — 

“ If it were easy, it could not tempt me. 
Now listen to me. We must be in haste 
about stowing Meg safely away. I ac- 
cept for her, in advance, whatever imbe- 
cile you may patronize. This anxiety off 
our hands, let us depart for Cairo; you 
shall teach me Arabic. As soon as I 
have learned it, you shall disguise me as 
you please, and the rest is my affair. I 
have come to the conclusion that I ought 
not to leave this world* without having 
seen Mecca, and that I shall see it with 
you.” 

Raymond thought she jested, and 
feigned to enter into the jest. She grew 
excited, then angry; and he was obliged 
to take her project seriously. His em- 
barrassment was extreme. He multiplied 
objections; but she had a response for 
all. 

“'What should I do,” asked he, “if, in 
despite of my precautions, some fanatical 
Mussulman should take it into his head 
to marry you?” 

“You would defend me against him. 
Is this task beyond your courage?” 

“No; but perhaps beyond my streng^;!, 
without taking into the account other 
risks which I should dread more.” And, 
thinking to acquit himself toward her by 
a little flattery, he added, “Who will 
defend me myself against you?” 

“ Explain yourself. I hate rigmarole 
and nonsense.” 

“ I apprehend, madame, that you would 


MISS ROVEL. 


59 


subject my philosophy to many certain 
perils.” 

“You wish to say that you are afraid 
you may fall in love with me. "VYbere 
would be the harm, if I permit it? It 
would divert me exceedingly. Your 
awkwardness, your sullenness, your 
crabbed ardors, your suppressed passion, 
would please me infinitely. You remem- 
ber that shepherdess of whom Shakspeare 
speaks, who never told her love, but let 
her passion,' concealed like a worm in 
the bud, prey on her damask cheek. 
Pale and melancholy, she sat like Pa- 
tience on a monument, smiling at grief. 
I should love to see you in that position.” 

“ Your wish will not be gratified. I 
am the least patient of men, and I have 
never smiled at grief.’.’ 

“I, too, have a crotchety disposition,” 
resumed she. “ Perhaps you would make 
me compassionate; perhaps, if your 
pride thought it would be dishonored in 
asking, mine, more complaisant, would 
spare you that trouble.” 

“O sovereign of Japan!” cried he, 
“ how precious are your favors ! but how 
haughty are your caprices! How un- 
foreseen are your requitals ! We lower 
mortals make our experiments at our 
own expense ; your majesty makes hers 
at the expense of others.” 

She replied dryly, “I am sometimes 
myself deceived; what proves to you 
that I deceive myself to-day ?” 

“ The sentiment I have of my nothing- 
ness, and my remembrance of an avowal 
you made to me not long since. If I 
were so foolish as to believe in my happi- 
ness, you would very soon dispel my illu- 
sion by repeating to me these words: 
‘ Have you not discovered that I love only 
myself?^ Nothing would remain forme 
but to kill myself.” 

“And if even that should happen?” 
she said in a panting voice. “ A beauti- 
ful dream followed by a beautiful death, 
— what can one wish better here below ? ” 

At these words, she lifted the diadem 
from her head, and placed it on her 
knees; then inclining toward Raymond, 
and gazing at him with glowing eyes, she 
murmured in English, “ Perhaps I will 
give you all it is in my power to give ; ” 
and Raymond comprehended that these 
words, uttered in her native tongue, 
meant in his, Peut-Ure vous donnerai-je 
ioiit ce quejepuis donner. 

He was at the end of his rdle, and re- 
mained with closed lips, not knowing 
what to do or say in order to extricate 
himself from this false position, and rid 
himself of a happiness which would have 
been the envy of so many mortals and 
demigods. His silence was so prolonged, 
that Lady Rovel, growing impatient, 
hastily detached her satin mask, and 
showed him her beautiful face all aglow 


with passion, and beaming with an en- 
chanting smile, which promised him all 
the intoxications, the felicities, the beati- 
tudes, of Mahomet’s paradise. 

He suddenly recovered his sang-froid . 
bowed gravely in the Oriental fashion, 
and replied in a firm, almost rude tone, 

“ Your beauty affrights me, madame, 
and you propose to me terrible risks ; but 
the prophet has said, ‘ Games of chance 
are accursed of God ; abstain from them : 
it is the secret of happiness.’ ” 

How describe what was passing in 
Lady Rovel’s soul? Nothing like this 
had ever come to her. This haughty 
divinity who set herself at so high a 
price, who had seen a nation of adorers 
prostrate before her altar, who had made 
them purchase her least favors through a 
painful novitiate, through long Imnailia- 
tions, for the first time had taken a 
fancy to make an offer of herself ; and 
she had experienced the insupportable 
outrage of a refusal. Was it possible? 
Was she dreaming? The man who had 
just said Wo, was he of flesh and bones, 
or a shadow, or a statue, a cold, insen- 
sate marble ? Astonishment, confusion, 
shame, resentment, fury, agitated her 
whole being; her blood boiled in her 
veins. She could have wished to feel 
growing at her fingers’ ends the claws 
of a true Saharian lioness, to plunge 
them into the face of this insolent man ; 
or, better still, she could have wished 
that her glances should change to light- 
nings, and consume him to ashes. She 
considered for a moment whether she 
should plunge into his heart the poniard 
she wore at her girdle, or if she should 
content herself with breaking her fan 
over his head, or if she should arm her- 
self with one of her imperial slippers, 
and slap him on his two cheeks, or if she 
should order her servants to throw him 
out of the window, or if she should dash 
in pieces the crystal chandeliers which 
had been witnesses of the affront offered 
her, or if she should simply give vent to 
her outraged feelings in tears, find her- 
self suddenly ill, and faint away? 

As soon as she could recover from the 
tumult of her thoughts, care for her 
wounded dignity gained mastery over lier 
rage. She again placed the crown upon 
her head, re-adjusted her mask, rose, and 
hurled at Raymond a glance of inexpres- 
sible disdain, which should literally have 
swept him from the face of the earth; 
and, withdrawing, she said half aloud, 
“What an idiotic animal this haughty 
Bedouin is ! and how easy it is to hoax 
him!” 

CHAPTER IX. 

Raymond had felt the thunderbolt fall- 
ing upon him ; it crushed, almost annihi- 


60 


MISS ROVEL. 


lated him. Slowly and painfully he 
gathered up the pieces. He had just 
hnished stitching them together, he had 
succeeded in entirely re-constructing 
himself, and, fearing an aggressive return 
of the enemy, he was about leaving the 
gallery to lose his identity in the crowd, 
when his passage was barred by Miss 
Rovel, who, taking his hand, obliged him 
to retrace his steps. 

“ What has happened between you and 
mamma? ” she asked in an excited tone. 

lie replied with a shrug of the shoul- 
ders, “ What makes you think that any 
thing has happened ? ” 

“Mamma has just now spoken a few 
words to me, and her voice trembled with 
rage. Treat me, I pray you, like a rea- 
sonable, responsible being, capable of 
understanding things, and from whom 
no concealments are necessary. You have 
my confidence, I wish to have yours.” 

“ As to that. Miss Rovel, I imagine we 
are quite even.” 

“Another blow; but why is mamma 
furious?” 

“ Since you demand to know, she has 
remarked with great displeasure the in- 
timacy which exists between you and a 
certain young cavalier whose cap is 
adorned with a white plume.” 

“If I believed a word you say,” re- 
plied she, “ I should pray you to go and 
tell her from me that I am very indiffer- 
ent to this cavalier.” 

•“I took it upon myself to declare that 
fact to her, and I also assured her that 
you had not danced with him a single 
time this evening.” 

“ How disagreeable you are with your 
sarcasms ! I dance with him because he 
dances well, but you have persuaded me 
that basset is dearer to him than I am. 
I could never love a man capable of hav- 
ing other thoughts when he spoke of me.” 

“ But this does not prevent your tak- 
ing great delight in his society.” 

“Ah, how well you wish to that white 
plume! Have I not told you that it is 
my habit to ‘ bark with wolves, and talk 
nonsense with fools ’ ? It is a very nice 
society talent. Good heavens 1 ” ex- 
claimed she. “It woujd delight me to 
have a secret, just for the pleasure of 
confessing it to you; but I vow to you 
that I have none.” 

“Do not believe her; she lies; it is 
Merlin who tells you so!” cried a hoarse, 
hollow voice, which seemed to proceed 
from the depths of a cavern; and they 
saw advancing toward them a grotesque 
being with humped back and bowed 
head ; a creature very like the Seigneur 
Montesinos with whom Don Quixote 
had a singular conversation, and who, at 
the risk of receiving a thousand blows 
from Sancho’s staff, persisted in treating 
of ap('ichryphal subjects. 


The new-comer was muffled up in a 
long violet robe falling to his heels; a 
green satin hood enveloped his breast 
and shoulders. A cap of ribbed black 
velvet covered his venerable head, and 
his white beard descended below his 
girdle. Following the example of Mon- 
tesinos, he wore a rosary around his left 
arm. I really do not know whether “ the 
beads thereon were larger than w^alnuts,” 
and if “ the tenth equalled in size the egg 
of an ostrich.” In his right hand he 
brandished an ebony wand. 

For an instant Meg gazed in silence at 
this apparition, then she began to laugh. 
“ It appears to me. Seigneur Merlin,” said 
she, disguising her voice, “that, saving 
your presence, politeness is not the virtue 
of enchanters. It is probable that you 
are as subtle as courteous. Endeavor to 
tell me who I am, and we shall know 
what to think of your penetration.” 

“When you wish us not to, recognize 
you,” replied he, hemming to clear his 
throat, “keep from laughing, beautiful 
Armenian. That laugh, sparkling as a 
rocket, fresher than a brook that bounds 
over its pebbly bed, more joyous than a 
linnet in the depths of the forest, and 
which yet eats into the heart like a drop 
of corrosive aquafortis into a copper plate, 
— that laugh, young girl, can belong only 
to a blonde whose eyes are black; this 
fact it needs no magic to divine.” 

“ You are less simple than I thought,” 
replied she. “You affirm, then, that I 
have a secret ? Do me thie favor of in- 
forming me what it is.” 

He shook his head. “ ^hat is the most 
inconsiderate of wishes,” he said. “ My 
beautiful child, preserve your ignorance 
as a treasure : the repose of your life de- 
pends upon it.” 

“I am not satisfied with evasions. 
Seigneur Merlin, and I see that you are a 
metaphysician, as well as I.” 

“ Since you are so imprudent as to set 
me at defiance,” replied he, “ learn, angel 
double of a demon, that, unknown to 
yourself, you adore a man whom for 
some time you believed you detested, — a 
man who inspires in you an insurmount- 
able antipathy, and whom, wrongly or 
rightly, you treat as a pedant. This man 
is the Arabian we see here,” pursued he, 
stretching toward Raymond his ebony 
wand. 

Raymond blushed to the whites of his 
eyes, and at this moment he blessed the 
useful invention of masks. He directed 
a menacing gesture toward Merlin, to 
close his mouth. Meg repressed her 
excitement, and with the greatest com- 
posure said to him, “ Ay, indeed, mon- 
sieur ! one does not get angry at a carni- 
val jest.” Then turning to the old man, 
she added, “My little fellow, your sim- 
plicity only equals your self-sufficiency. 


MISS ROVEL. 


61 


The enchanted wand which you hold in 
your hand, has it not revealed to you that 
this Arabian is my guardian ? How long 
is it since young girls have fallen in love 
with their guardians?” 

“ Since Rosina was subjected to such 
great misfortunes for not having married 
hers,” responded he gravely; “since that 
joyous creature ended by becoming La 
Mere Coupable, which is in truth the 
most lachrymose, the most insipid piece 
that ever insulted the footlights.” 

“Oh! let us not speak of literature,” 
said she, “ that is not my forte. Since 
you are so skilful in deciphering souls, 
you can do no better than to occupy 
yourself a little with that of my guardian. 
Has he a secret, — even he ? ” 

“ Miss Rovel,” exclaimed Raymond, “ I 
must beg you not to mix me in with these 
stupid jests.” 

“We know not what fate awaits us, 
who is to live, or who to die,” replied 
she. “ To-morrow, if such is your desire, 
we will be solemn as the iron-barred gate 
of The Hermitage. To night, I intend to 
talk nonsense to the joy of my heart. 
Speak now, man of the sepulchral 
voice ! Has my guardian a secret ? ” 

“ Your guardian, mademoiselle,” re- 
plied he, “ appears to me to be a very hot- 
headed, dangerous man. Before replying 
to the questions of Achilles, Calchas, who 
did not love to risk nis life, made 
Achilles promise to defend him against 
the resentment of Agamemnon.” 

“ Have no fear, Calchas I I take you 
under my protection.” 

He scratched his ear, then he cried, 
“ O ye inspiring gods, guide my tongue in 
this delicate conjuncture ! teach me the 
art of making all understood without say- 
ing art. offensive word, the art of divest- 
ing the truth of its dart and its poison!” 
And, passing his hand over his beard, he 
seemed to be re-collecting his thoughts. 

“ There are men, my beautiful child,” 
resumed he, “ who, with a tender heart, 
possess tlie most intractable pride; they 
have decided that love is an unworthy 
weakness, the most humiliating of sub- 
jections; they have called heaven and 
earth to witness that they will love no 
more, and they would be hung rather 
than recant. These individuals are like 
the gardener’s dog who swore that he 
would not eat, and did not eat, but who 
would no longer hear of any other dog’s 
eating. Beautiful blonde with the black 
eyes, if you w’ish to marry, break with 
your guardian, for you will never marry 
the man you love, and he will prevent 
your marrying him you do not love.” 

“ This insolent badinage has lasted too 
long,” cried Raymond beside himself: “I 
wish to know what juggler is hidden un- 
der this violet robe.” 

Speaking thus, he darted toward the 


magician with a menace of the head so 
ferocious, that he, concerned for his 
safety, forgetting his age, and the white- 
ness of his beard, suddenly drew up his 
crooked back, and stood erect upon his 
two legs in the attitude of a l)oxer ready 
to play at fisticuffs. Meanwhile, several 
masks entered, followed by a servant who 
bore a salver laden with sherbets. There 
was a moment of confusion, by which 
Merlin profited to escape. Raymond fol- 
lowed in pursuit, but lost the trace. 
After many tours and detours, he thought 
he perceived the magician in the midst of 
a group ; upon approaching, he found 
that he had been mistaken, and ran vain- 
ly over the palace. The ebony wand and 
the violet robe had vanished like an ap- 
parition. 

While he was engrossed in this search, 
Miss Rovel had re-entered the second 
salon. She was soon accosted by the 
cavalier in the white plume, who had so 
displeased Raymond. He drew her into 
the embrasure of a window, and, in order 
to mislead certain curious persons who 
were prowling around them, they indulged 
in two conversations, the one in a loud, 
intelligible voice, the latter in a tone 
rapid, repressed, indistinct as the buzzing 
of a fly. 

“ The day has been superb,” cried the 
prince, as if he were speaking of indiffer- 
ent things. 

“Superb indeed,” responded she. 

“ I did not see you at the Cascine.” 

“That is a promenade which does not 
please me every day.” 

“The Princess de B. was there. With 
her gay dress, her crooked nose, and her 
carnation cheeks, she resembled, as they 
say, a parrot eating a cherry.” Then he 
whispered low, “I await your answer; 
it will decide whether I am to be the hap- 
piest of men, or whether upon returning 
home I blow out my brains.” ■ 

“ I shall be in despair,” murmured she 
from the corners of her lips, “if misfor- 
tune should come to the handsomest man 
in Italy, and I do not love romances 
which turn into tragedies.” 

“But this may become one; you have 
rendered me mad ; my head is no longer 
my own.” 

“Do not kill yourself; I would prefer 
for you to run away with me ; but can 
you not find something else that would 
answer just as well ? ” 

“Wliat now? Have we not agreed, 
that, in order to marry you, I am forced 
to resort to desperate means ? ” 

“ This is easily said,” sighed she. 
“But an elopement, an elopement! 
That is impossible here.” 

He raised his voice anew to say to her, — 
Apropos, were you present the other 
evening, at the concert of the famous 
Polish pianLst ? ” 


62 


MISS ROVEL. 


“They assure me,” replied she, “that 
he has a great deal of talent.” 

“Doubtless; but there is wanting to 
this Pole that — what shall I call it? — 
that divine wickedness which constitutes 
genius.” 

“ Then in your estimation one must be 
a man fit to be hung in order to be a 
grand pianist.” 

“To excel in any thing, whatever it 
may be, one must give one’s self to the 
devil,” replied he. And he went on in a 
very low tone, “Why is an elopement 
impossible here ? Are you not left to do 
about as you please?” 

She replied in the same tone, “Do 
you not understand, that, if you elope 
with me from her own house, mamma 
will consider herself defied, and, for her 
whole life long, will never pardon such 
an affront ? 'V^at would become of our 
marriage? ” 

“ Then please tell me, what shall we 
do?” 

“It is all very simple,” said she, pla- 
cing her fan before her mouth. “ I shall 
have to go to The Hermitage, near Gen- 
eva, to the house of my guardian. It is a 
house where you might die of ennui, but 
where I am free as air.” 

“ Ah ! Allow me to say that your 
guardian does not appear to me like an 
obliging man.” 

“ He translates Lucretius, and passes 
life with his nose in his books. I defy 
you to take one single volume from his 
library without his knowing it; but, if 
you were to deprive him of his ward, he 
would require twenty-four hours to per- 
ceive it,” 

Some onQ, apparently a listener, had 
approached, and was pricking up his 
ears. Passing from the pianissimo to the 
forte, Meg cried out, “Is it true, sei- 
gneur, that you yesterday lost a large sum 
at play?” 

“Alas, yes, beautiful Armenian; we 
have sustained a great loss, but we shall 
make it up to-morrow.” 

“Ah, well! I admire you; for, despite 
this great loss, you have been in a charm- 
ing humor to-night.” 

Oh! ” replied he, laughing, “ I never 
allow my troubles to disturb my pleas- 
ures, Those are two .parts in my life 
which have nothing in common. I use 
them like that Englishman, who, dining 
at an inn, found a hair in his stew. ‘ Put 
that aside,’ said he ; ‘I will take it when 
I want it.’ ” 

The listener, frustrated in his design, 
had just turned away his glances and his 
ears. Lowering his voice, and turning his 
eyes away, the cavalier said to Meg, 
“ And how shall you manage about going 
to The Hermitage ? ” 

Meg sheltered herself anew behind her 
fan. “Listen well to me,” she said; 


“mamma has declared, that, if I am the 
voluntary or involuntary cause of the 
least scandal, she shall pray my guardian 
to seek a boarding-school for me. I shall 
well know how to force it to offer me its 
hospitality.” 

“Heavens! What have you in your 
mind? And so we are going to give 
cause for a little scandal?” 

“You see that cockade at my right 
ear?” responded she in a voice that was 
but a breath. “I shall let it fall; you 
shall pick it up; you, shall boast that I 
have given it to you. I shall immediate- 
ly dispatch a Kalmuc to you, with an 
order to silence you ; and I allow you to 
unsheathe the sword.” 

“Divine invention!” said he. “And 
this Kalmuc shall be the Marquis de 
Boisgenet? Do you authorize me to 
make bacon of him?” 

“Mercy! You are not to do him the 
least harm ; it will serve our purpose to 
make some noise, but well-born children 
do not kill their drummer.” Then, kiss- 
ing her hand to her interlocutor, she 
added in a loud voice, “You have this 
evening given me a lesson in wisdom 
from which I shall profit. Who does not 
find a hair in his pottage or in his life ? 
Following your example, I will take it by 
itself, and I shall eat only of that which 
pleases me.” 

She withdrew ; and, two seconds after, 
the pretty cockade lay upon the floor. 
Sylvio stooped hurriedly, and picked it 
up. Having fastened it upon his breast 
with a pin, he went and posted himself 
in the most sightly place of the salon, 
and remained there with crossed arms, 
gazing vaingloriously upon his trophy. 

Meantime, Meg had darted off in pur- 
suit of the Marquis de Boisgenet. She 
at last discovered him at a buffet, where 
in a corner by himself he was draining in 
small draughts a flask of Burgundian 
wine. He was in a melancholy vein, and 
broken by fatigue. Never had his func- 
tions as factotum weighed so heavily 
upon his little shoulders ; and, to recom- 
pense him for his pains, Lady Rovel had 
just taken it upon herself to inform him 
that Mirette, having introduced herself 
into a quadrille, had received a kick, and 
had set up the most dolorous yelps. Let 
us add to this, that he had all the even- 
ing sustained a running fire of jeers, epi- 
grams, and railleries, and that, having 
tried several times to procure himself an 
interview with Meg, that perfidious girl 
had slipped like an eel between his fin- 
gers. He could not digest so many hu- 
miliations, and the best wine of Burgundy 
seemed bitter to him. 

All at once, he felt a supple hand upon 
his shoulder, and a charming Armenian 
said to him, “At last I find you, O most 
amiable of the Kalmucs!” 


MISS ROYEL. 


63 


“What does this mean?” cried he in a 
very morose tone; “you all know how to 
find me when you need me. What lustre 
has been extinguished ? Does the trom- 
bone want breath, and am I to supply it 
from my own mouth ? Have they a second 
time trampled upon Mirette, and must I 
bathe her with arnica ? Am I to climb 
up by a ladder, and take the moon be- 
tween my teeth ? ” 

“ Jacob, did he not serve seven years 
to merit Rachel?” asked the softest 
voice. 

“Rachel did not make sport of Jacob,” 
replied he furiously; “Rachel was not an 
arrant coquette ; Rachel did not ten 
times a day say yes with her eyes, and 
no with her lips; Rachel did not allow 
herself to be fooled by coxcombs; and, 
above all, Rachel had no guardian. You 
understand me. Miss Rovel, no guardian. 
Leave me, and let me drown my sorrows 
in the glass.” 

“ Very well ! ” said she ; “ you would be 
capable of drowning there your hopes 
also.” 

She sat down beside him, and, by means 
of her pretty caressing ways, she suc- 
ceeded, although with some difliculty, in 
cajoling him a little. Then she cried out 
suddenly, “ There is only one word that 
answers, and that is Yes or No. Are you 
my chevalier?” 

“ Wliat do you mean. Miss Rovel ? ” 

“I mean that a coxcomb is about to 
compromise me, and that you take the 
affair in a strange fashion.” 

“ In what fashion would you like to 
have me take it, since I do not know the 
first word about it ? ” 

“A chevalier divines all, he is so jeal- 
ous of his lady’s honor.” 

This last sentence inundated the heart 
of the marquis with delight. “ In what 
way does any one seek to compromise 
you ? ” he asked. 

“That cockade which I wore in my 
hair, which I thought so charming, which 
I had promised to give you” — 

“ Upon my honor, I doubt that,” in- 
terrupted he. 

“ When Rachel promises, it is with the 
eyes,” said she. “I designed for you to 
have it by and by ; but that impertinent 
fellow of whom I speak has carried it 
away ; he exhibits it everywhere, declaring 
that I have given it to him, and that he 
is at last on the very best terms with the 
Armenian.” 

M. de Boisgenet started up excitedly. 
“Who is the scoundrel?” cried he. 

“You see him over there; that tall 
young man in the plaited ruff.” 

“Is not that Prince Natti?” asked he; 
and with a dreamy eye he gazed upon the 
chair he had just left. 

“ Ah! now I think of it,” said she, “I 
would not wish to involve you in any 


trouble with this formidable man ; and I 
am going this instant in search of my 
guardian.” 

“ No, you are not 1 Do not speak to me 
of your abominable guardian!” cried M. 
de Boisgenet dancing around as if she had 
lashed him with a whip. “ This affair 
concerns only me; I hasten to reclaim 
my property, and to rescue your honor.” 

He poured out a bumper of red wine, 
drained it at a draught to confirm his 
resolution ; then with a brisk, warlike ej'^e. 
he surveyed group aftar group, and at last 
found the man in the ruff, who was har- 
anguing a dozen masks ranged in a circle 
around him, and defying them to guess 
from whom came his cockade. 

M. de Boisgenet approached valiantly, 
and cried out to him, “ Monsieur, have 
the obligingness to restore to me as quick- 
ly as possible the knot of ribbons you 
wear upon your right shoulder ; the person 
from whom you took it has charged me 
to reclaim it. ” 

“ The jest is a little too preposterous,” 
drawled he. “If the fantastic princess 
who bestowed upon me this precious gift 
has regretted her liberality, I only know 
what to do about it ; and I shall defend 
the gift to my last breath, against all the 
Kalmucs, the Laplanders, and the Samai- 
nians in the universe. ” 

At these words, he drew his sword with- 
out crying “ Beware,” and set about mak- 
ing such terrible flourishes with it, that M. 
de Boisgenet, astonished at so spirited a 
response, recoiled five or six paces. His pre- 
cipitate re treat set all around to laughing. 
He became furious at having been afraid, 
and in his fury he feared nothing more. 

He cast his eyes hither and thither to 
discover a weapon ; at length, in the lack 
of a better, he seized upon the switch a 
Magyar carried in one of his riding-boots, 
and began to fence with it; whereupon 
the adversary gave him a back blow 
which sent him bounding to the ceiling. 
His rage knew no further limits; lie 
danced and whirled around the redoubt- 
able blade, hoping always to find it in de- 
fault. He exposed himself so much that 
the prince, fearing lest he might run him 
through, gave back a foot. The game 
might perhaps have ended fatally, if M. de 
Boisgenet had not slipped upon a piece of 
lemon-peel, and fallen to the floor. He 
lay there extended his whole length, his 
head resting against a marble pedestal 
which supported a bust. At the same 
moment a Bedouin, who had been a silent 
spectator of this passage-at-arms, and 
who, unknown to Sylvio, had come and 
taken position behind him, adroitly 
stretched forth his hand, and snatched 
away the cockade. 

It was Prince Natti’ s turn to be furious. 
He rushed at the audacious thief, but he 
raised an exclamation of horror in finding 


64 


MISS ROVEL. 


Miss Kovel at the end of his sword. 
‘‘Prince, what are you thinking of?” 
cried she; “ this is my guardian. ” The 
white-plumed chevalier was most lavish 
of excuses, and returned his sword to its 
scabbard, while Raymond, who had pre- 
served his usual self-composure, tranquil- 
ly replaced the cockade in Meg’s hair. 
Meantime the marquis, much stunned by 
his fall, arose with great difficulty, and in 
a querulous voice called for a handker- 
chief to bind up his forehead. 

Although this scene had lasted only a 
few minutes, it had caused a lively commo- 
tion. In seeing Prince Natti unsheathe 
his sword, one woman had fainted, 
and several others had raised piercing 
cries. The masqueraders had rushed up 
from all sides, the orchestra had become 
silent. As M. de Boisgenet had fallen 
with his face to the floor, the report had 
spread from one to another, that a man 
in a wide ruff had killed a Kalmuc. 

This report reached the ears of Lady 
Kovel ; an instant after, she was at the 
scene of action, a prey to the most lively 
irritation, indignant as astonished that 
her house had been so scandalized 
Tearing off her mask, she darted fero- 
cious glances all around her. Some one 
venturing to remind her that the dying 
man lay at her feet, she gazed at him 
vindictively, as if she would call him to 
account for the false alarm, or would re- 
proach him for having lost, in not having 
really died, the only occasion offered him 
to make himself interesting. 

“Marquis,” said she to him without 
taking time to choose her words, “ you 
are a fool; go and get your wounds 
dressed by my maid-servants.” Then 
with a Koxana-like gesture, she said to 
the prince, “Leave!” And, bending 
down to her daughter, she hissed in her 
ear, “Withdraw into your chamber!” 
Finally, turning to Raymond, she flung 
him a glance which fell upon him dis- 
dainfully, pitilessly, like a vulture swoop- 
ing down upon a crane. “Monsieur,” 
commanded she in a terrible voice, 
“come to me to-morrow about noon; I 
have two or three words to say to you.” 

She then ordered the music to strike 
up ; the dancing began again ; quiet was 
by degrees re-established, but not in the 
soul of Raymond Ferray. Half an hour 
later, he regained his hotel, carrying in 
his head two or three orchestras, a co- 
hort of masks, all the peoples and all the 
costumes of the earth, Japanese furies, 
Armenian wiles and deceits, plaited ruffs, 
beards like that of Montesinos, sword- 
thrusts, and cockades. 

He employed the dusky morning hours, 
which should have been given to slum- 
ber, in communion with his thoughts ; it 
seemed to him that they, too, wore a mask, 
and that he in vain endeavored to distin- 


guish their faces, so wildly did they gam- 
bol and pirouette around him to the 
sounds of a diabolical music. 

When the first beams of day penetrated 
his chamber, he was obliged to confess 
that these four walls enclosed only a dis- 
comfited philosopher, for whom all 
physics and metaphysics reduced them- 
selves to one sole idea; which was to 
divine a certain little girl’s secret, and to 
find out exactly what was passing in her 
heart, supposing she had one. 


X. 

After a short drowse, Raymond rose, 
and -was getting ready to go to Lady 
Rovel at the appointed hour, when he 
was handed a note which Pamela had 
brought. It -was as follows : — 

“ I have many things to say to you, my 
dear guardian, and I have only a mo- 
ment. Excuse the writing and the rest. 

“ 1st, I wish to set your mind at ease in 
regard to an incident about which you 
were wrong to become so much excited. 
I imagine that our famous magician in 
the white beard, who, when you take 
sides against him, assumes the attitude 
of an English boxer, may pei-haps be 
only a haimless Scotchman by the name 
of Gordon. If my conjecture is true, 
the scene he played for us may be a ven- 
geance in its way, where he placed all the 
wit at his own disposal. Think of it no 
more, if, indeed, you still are thinking of 
it. 

“ 2d, My beautiful and adorable mamma 
is in such a humor to-day ! She is furious 
at you (I know not why), furious at hand- 
some Sylvio because he allowed himself 
to draw the sword in her house, furious 
at me, whom she very unjustly considers 
the prime cause of this scandalous quar- 
rel. Heaven be praised ! she is no less 
furious at M. de Boisgenet. She bears a 
grudge against him for having made him- 
self so awkward and ridiculous last even- 
ing, and especially for having presumed 
to pass for dead when he was still alive. 
She called him a fool in your presence ; 
he cannot digest that word. After your 
departure, they had a lively altenjation, 
followed by a formal rapture. May it 
prove a lasting one ! 

“3d, In conclusion, mamma has just de- 
clared to me that I have a cross-grained 
disposition, and an atrocious character; 
that she gives up trying to teach me how 
to behave in society, which I shall never 
enter again but as a married woman. 
She avows it as her irrevocable resolution 
to shut me up somewhere until she finds 
a husband for me to her liking. And 
now a new idea has entered her head; 
she has submitted it to me. Guess 


IVnSS ROYEL. 


65 


where she wishes to send me ! I do not 
•dare tell you. What an indiscretion, mon- 
sieur, to pretend to impose upon you yet 
again the care of my foolish head and my 
foolish person ! It is already too much 
for you to have deigned to make this 
journey to Florence for the purpose of 
delivering me from a Kalmuc. And so I 
have rebelled, protested, represented to 
mamma the extravagance of her idea, 
told her that you could not endure us, 
my faults and me; that it would be in 
the highest degree disagreeable to you to 
receive me again into your house; and 
that I defied her to make you consent to 
it. She coldly replied to me, ‘ We 
shall see about that ; ’ and I perceived a 
little later, that in my ardent zeal I had 
just been guilty of a great piece of stu- 
pidity; that all my objections had an 
effect contrary to what I had designed. 
Angry as she is with you (I still do not 
know why), she will be charmed to do 
any thing which displeases you, and you 
are about to be forced to submit to a 
formidable assault. Repair my foolish 
blunder as well as you can ; may you at 
least prefer to regard it in the light of 
that true philosophy, which from an 
elevated bridge sees its misfortunes flow 
on like the waters of a river. The water 
will not flow very long, and your bridge 
is perched so high ! 

“ 4th, 5th, and 6th, I respect you with all 
my heart, monsieur; and, for the sake of 
this worthy sentiment, I implore you to 
pardon all my faults, past and future.” 

Raymond experienced a sudden shock 
in reading this letter, and in learning the 
very rash and unexpected resolution 
Lady Rovel had formed. His surprise 
was accompanied by a dilation of the 
heart, by a shiver of joy such as comes 
over a inan to whom it is suddenly an- 
nounced that he has just won a prize in 
the lottery. He would have very much 
liked to persuade himself that Miss Rov- 
er s guardian only thought of the interest 
of his ward, and that, if he rejoiced in the 
thought of taking her back to The Her- 
mitage, it was because he was happy — 

De d^rober cette rose naissante 
An souffle empoisonn6 d’un monde dangereux. 

He tried not to deceive himself; for 
■some hours, he had been no longer able 
to make an illusion of his true sentiments. 
Certain words unexpectedly pronounced, 
burned like a torch ; they lighted the most 
obscure recesses of a soul which hid it- 
self from itself. A magician expert in 
his art, with brutal hand rending away 
every veil, had revealed to Raymond him- 
self. He had seen the depths of his soul, 
And he could no longer doubt that he very 
much resembled the gardener’s dog, who I 


has never been considered the happiest 
of dogs. He actually felt that happiness 
would be a torture, but tortures have 
their delights. 

Noon struck, and he hastily broke 
away from his reflections, and hastened to 
the rendezvous, determined to make a 
fine defence, but reckoning in advance 
upon defeat. He found Lady Rovel in 
the same salon as at their first meeting, 
seated upon the same sofa ; she held in 
her lap Mirette, who had not entirely re- 
covered from her last night’s experien- 
ces. 

Seeing Raymond while yet a long dis- 
tance off, she asked, “ Monsieur, do 
you really leave to-day for Genera by the 
four-o’clock train ? ” 

“It is possible, madame, but I know 
nothing of it.” 

“ The nights are still cold,” resumed she, 
“ and Meg is imprudent. You will see 
that Pamela takes the best possible care 
of her, and wraps the child comfortably 
in her furs.” 

“ Is Miss Rovel also going to Geneva? ” 

“ She is to pass a few weeks at The 
Hermitage,” responded Lady Rovel in a 
tone of superb nonchalance, “ just the 
time I shall require to find her a hus- 
band. It delights me to learn, that, so 
far as boarding-schools are concerned, she 
prefers a known ennui to unknown evils.” 

“ You overwhelm me, madame ! But, I 
pray you, have you as a preliminary con- 
sulted the owner of The Hermitage? 
Perhaps he might think you had a some- 
what cavalier fashion of disposing of him 
and of his house.” 

She gave the pug-dog a bonbon; and 
while the pet was cracking it with her fine 
teeth, the mistress replied, “Monsieur, 
do you, or do you not, consider yourself 
Meg’s guardian ? If you are not, by what 
right do you intermeddle in her affairs, 
and give me advice no one has asked of 
you? If you are, can you with a good 
grace refuse to harbor her at your house 
until I have provided for her future ? — Is 
this reasoning not just, my child?” she 
said to the dog, giving her a second bon- 
bon. 

“ Grant that I am her guardian,” re- 
plied Raymond : “I have the burdens if 
not the office ; but you yourself complain 
that Meg is difficult to guard. I take it 
for granted that I do not pledge myself 
to guard her better than you.” 

“ I love to think that you will do your 
best. I have always preferred knaves to 
idle people. A man who respects himself 
should harness himself to something, to 
a danseuse, to a duty ; it matters not what. 
You have no danseuse : it gives me great 
pleasure to provide you with a duty.” 

“I am confounded at your goodness, 
madame; but I repeat to you, that, let 
come what will, your daughter must hold 


5 


66 


MISS KOVEL. 


surveillance over herself ; that I cannot be 
responsible to you for her conduct.” 

“That is self-evident; you need not 
say it,” responded she with an accent of 
supreme disdain : “ it is Mile. Ferray who 
will be responsible to me.” 

“ My sister is near-sighted and lame, 
and I declare to you that she is still less 
disposed than myself to take Miss Kovel 
again under her control.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” 

“ I am certain of it.” 

“Poor, ignorant man that you are! I 
have passed the whole morning convers- 
ing by telegraph with Mile. Ferray. First 
response from Geneva, ‘Yes, madame, 
immediately, if my brother is willing.’ 
Second despatch from Florence, ‘Made- 
moiselle, your brother is willing; Meg 
will leave with him at four o’clock ; come 
to Susa to meet them.’ Second response 
from Geneva, ‘ Madame, in an hour I 
shall leave for Susa.’ Now, here is a 
business affair according to rule, I 
think.” 

He rose. “ Since my sister is on the 
way,” said he, “ I see myself forced to 
submit; but I reserve for myself the 
office of attorney. The day when I have 
cause of complaint against Miss Kovel, I 
shall send her back to you, madame, if 
not by telegraph, at least by rail.” 

“You mean to say that you will be so 
obliging as to keep her until I pray you 
to send her back to me,” replied she; 
“that will not be long.” Then with an 
ironical smile she added, “Learn, mon- 
sieur, from a woman who has had much 
converse’ with mankind, that in this 
Avorld one must be either granite or 
india-rubber, and that nothing is more 
ridiculous than false granite.” 

After this beautiful apostrophe, she 
wished him a happy journey, gave him 
a new injunction to keep Meg from 
draughts of air ; and, pulling the tip of 
Mirette’s ear, she said, “Little one, gaze 
well at this gentleman, whom you will 
never see again.” 

“ She is right, india-rubber or gran- 
ite ! ” said Kaymond to himself as he de- 
scended the grand marble staircase of 
the palazzo. And elevating his head, and 
hurling a glance of defiance at an invisi- 
ble enemy, he formed the firm resolution 
to prove to himself that nature had made 
him of true granite, and that his will 
was not at the mercy of transitory emo- 
tions. He swore that he would render 
himself master of his thoughts, that he 
would come forth conqueror from trial, 
that Meg should never suspect the un- 
worthy weaknesses she inspired in him, 
that she should never guess what passed 
in his soul when he gazed upon her. He 
swore by the bronze Perseus of Benve- 
nuto Cellini, at which he gazed in the 
Loggia de Lonzi as he passed the Grand 


Ducal Square; and as he recalled those 
singular words which are graven upon 
the pedestal of this noble statue, Te, Jili, 
si quis IcBserit, ulier ero, his pride, chal- 
lenging his heart, repeated to him, “ O 
my son, if any one wounds thee, I will 
avenge thee ! ” 

Before half-past three, Raymond was 
at the station. He awaited some time 
that which his eyes and his heart sought ; 
fearing lest Lady Kovel had changed her 
mind, a fever took possession of him. 
Finally Meg arrived, followed by her 
baggage, by Pamela, and an old steward 
whom Lady Kovel had charged to assist 
her in her preparations for departure, 
and to see her safely in the cars. So 
long as he was present, Meg had a som- 
bre glance, an elongated visage. Scarce 
had he taken leave of her, as the train 
started, when the fog cleared away, and 
merriment sparkled from her eyes. For 
his part, Raymond felt his soul at rest. 
The trial he was about to confront seemed 
to him less difficult, less perilous, than he 
had at first thought. We sometimes take 
for the tranquillity of a satisfied mind the 
secret blossoming of a great joy. 

Meg had a mind so serene, so gay, she 
appeared so resigned to her lot, so dis- 
posed to take in good part all the inci- 
dents of the journey, that it was impossi- 
ble to suppose she had left her heart on 
the banks of the Arno; and Raymond, 
who regarded her stealthily, was soon 
free from ail his remaining disquietudes. 
What likelihood was there that Prince 
Natti had better succeeded than Mr. Gor- 
don in inspiring a serious sentiment in this 
joyous girl ? There was no shadow upon 
her face : you saw there a soul free from 
every sorrow, as from every remembrance ; 
a heart which had not even a regret for 
its amusements, certain of finding every- 
where enough in store for her. 

Wlien evening came, Raymond was less 
content, and the night appeared long to 
him. Meg, after being wrapped in her 
furs, slept without awaking until morn- 
ing. Pamela tried to follow her example, 
but sleep fled from her dusky eyelids. 
She was tormented by chagrins, she 
cursed the destiny which condemned her 
to bury anew her ebony charms in the 
solitude and the deadly monotony of The 
Hermitage. She had lived for six months 
in search of an adventure. Lady Kovel 
gave Pamela her dresses when she got 
tired of them; and Pamela had always 
flattered herself that in like manner, one 
day or another, Meg would pass over into 
her hands the heart of some gallant, for 
which she had no further use. She re- 
called to mind that a brilliant cavalier had 
said to her near a certain Carthusian 
cloister, “ Charming brunette, if I lose my 
suit with your mistress, it is you whom 
I shall choose to console me.” Her 


MISS ROYEL. 


67 


charitable soul was in despair at the i 
thought, that, in the sombre isolation of 
The Hermitage, she would meet no fine- 
looking young man to whom she could 
offer consolation. If she sometimes suc- 
ceeded in going to sleep, beginning to 
dream of the beautiful mustaches of 
Prince Natti, she would awaken with a 
start, and heave a deep sigh. 

Raymond could not sigh, but he expe- 
rienced a cruel restlessness, a painful and 
feverish anxiety. He dreamed, in spite of 
himself, of the false Merlin, of his oracles, 
a whimsical admixture of truth and error. 
This magician or this jealous man must 
be very much mistaken about Meg. Who 
could suppose her to have any deeper 
feeling than friendship for her guardian ? 
In his conversations with her since their 
departure from Florence, she had given 
proof of a perfect freedom of mind ; and 
the ease of her manners, the naturalness 
and frankness of her language, bore small 
resemblance to the timidity and caution 
of a love which seeks concealment. If 
Meg had loved neither Prince Natti nor 
Mr. Gordon, it was because her heart 
was not yet mature, and the moment of 
loving had not come for her. With- 
out contradiction, she was very happy, so 
happy, that, when this thought recurred 
to Raymond, he felt almost suffocated for 
lack of air, and more than once he low- 
ered a window of the railway-carriage to 
bare his glowing forehead to the freshness 
of the night. 

The car was too narrow, Meg was too 
near him ; gazing at her from the corner 
of his eye, he surprised himself, cursing 
the profound tranquillity of her slumber, 
regretting bitterly, that the false Merlin 
was only a half-lucid somnambulist, and 
that, having seen so clearly upon one point, 
he had so grossly deceived himself upon 
the others. 

He was charmed to see the dawn ap- 
pear, making the cock crow, and driving 
away the nightmare ; more charmed still 
in seeing at the Susa railway-station a 
limping and blinking little woman, who 
was impatiently awaiting the train. 
Hearing herself called by name, she pre- 
cipitated herself boldly into the arms of a 
policeman whom she took for her brother. 
At the same instant, Meg darting behind 
her, and seizing her by the two shoulders, 
cried out, “Ah, Miss Agatha, how 
much sense you have in your blunders !” 

Mile. Ferray sought to turn around so as 
to see her ; and at hap-hazard, she might 
have said to her as the Count de Rouce 
said to Mile. d’Arpajon, his betrothed, 

“ Mademoiselle, although you are ugly, I 
shall not cease to love you dearly.” Then, 
succeeding in obtaining a nearer view, he 
says charitably, “Who pretended that 
this little girl was ugly? ” Then regard- 
ing her yet more closely, he added, “ Oh ! 


I the villanous liar ! She is more beautiful 
than an angel.” 

“For shame, mademoiselle ! ” responded 
Meg. “ They speak no more of her beauty 
to a sainted maiden who renounces the 
world.” Having said this she threw her- 
self upon Mile. Ferray’s neck, and, giving 
a side-glance to Raymond, she asked, 
“Would you like to know how Monsieur 
Ferray has passed his time in Florence ? 
Would you believe that he went to a ball 
disguised as a Bedouin, that he received 
there ardent declarations, and that he 
took it upon himself to have a brush with 
a bully who stole a ribbon from me? 
That is gallantry, or I do not understand 
the word.” 

This bantering, and Meg’s careless tone, 
rufiled Raymond, who did not know how 
to conceal his displeasure. For some 
minutes he had a cold, constrained air, 
and ‘replied roughly enough to the ca- 
resses which his sister lavished upon him. 
This disturbed Mile. Ferray’s joy. She 
feared that he was angry with himself 
for having too easily yielded to the over- 
tures of Lady Rovel ; and she revolved 
around him like a poodle-dog which has a 
peccadillo upon its conscience, and by the 
tenderness of its glances seeks to avert 
the resentment of its master. 

He at length became good natured. 
His icy reserve melted, and Mile. Ferray’s 
happiness shone resplendent like a July 
heaven. As soon as they had re-entered 
the railway-carriage, she began to ques- 
tion Meg in regard to her misdeeds, pray- 
ing her to draw up the whole list. Meg 
recounted her enormities, and Mile. Fer- 
ray cried out in indignation ; but, perceiv- 
ing that Meg was imposing upon her, she 
said, “ You naughty girl, you are making 
sport of me. The only unpardonable 
crime is to amuse yourself at the ex- 
pense of people who love you ; it is the real 
sin against the Holy Ghost.” 

“ Bah, mademoiselle ! ” responded Meg. 

‘ ‘ If the good God resembles you, there 
will be no last judgment ; after profound 
consideration, the dear God will say, ‘ Let 
us embrace each other ; all is explained.’ ” 

In the evening they arrived at The 
Hermitage. The next day morning, Ray- 
mond, standing at a window, perceived 
Miss Rovel, who hooded in a tartan, her 
feet in the dew, was making the tour of 
the enclosure, examining all, assuring 
herself that nothing had changed either 
in the place or its outw'ard appearance. 
She beat the bush like a hunter, and 
made the old remembrances come forth. 
Although spring was less advanced than 
at Florence, she found along the hedges 
some primroses of which she made a 
bouquet. Then, retracing her steps, she 
visited the hen-house, throwing a glance 
; into the stable and the hay-lofts. She 
! was about re-entering the house, when 


68 


MISS HOVEL. 


Raymond hailed her. “Miss Rovel,” 
cried he, “historians recount, that, the 
first time the exiled Napoleon took a 
walk around his island, he exclaimed, 

‘ The devil ! my prison is small.’ ” 

“I have eyes that magnify,” responded 
she, “and so good a heart that I wish 
Hudson Lowe to flourish.” And she 
threw her bouquet into his face. 

For more than three weeks the days 
flew peacefully at The Hermitage, its 
inmates reckoning no other events than 
their thoughts. Those of Miss Rovel 
were as tranquil as agreeable. It seemed 
as if, in obedience to some charm, her 
blood flowed less quickly, that some 
grains of lead had entered her brain. 
Her days passed in a round of amuse- 
ments without giddiness, in long rests 
without languor. They feared lest time 
might hang heavily on her hands, and 
proposed to her promenades, concerts, and 
theatres ; she replied that she needed 
rest and calm, that an orchard circled by 
blossoming hedges, and bounded by a 
brook, sufficed as a promenade for her 
limbs and for her mind. Raymond 
presented her a horse. She was sensible 
of this attention, and rode out once or 
twice through gratitude. But her greatest 
pleasures were to remain in the house, to 
work, for better or worse, upon Mile. 
Ferray’s tapestry, and at evening to listen 
to some tragedy which her guardian read 
to her in a voice grave enough, but more 
emotional than of yore. 

She moreover secured occupation for 
herself by asking Mile. Ferray to resign 
the duties of mistress of the house in 
her favor ; and she made great efforts to 
prove that she understood how to con- 
duct a house as well as anybody. Her 
administration gave much cause for criti- 
cism. It often happened, that she mis- 
laid the keys, and lost much time in 
searching for them ; that, something di- 
verting her mind from the search, she 
would forget all about it, and end by go- 
ing to inquire for the keys of Mile. 
Ferray. A duck having hatched out 
some eggs, she boasted of having par- 
ticular knowledge as to the rearing of 
ducklings ; and so adroitly did she set 
about the work, that twenty-four hours 
sufficed to exterminate the entire brood. 
She made a whole tribe of rabbits pass 
from to life death by feeding them with 
soaked grass. Her presumption knew no 
bounds; she represented herself as a 
clever cook of the first order, and pre- 
pared with her own hands a dish of her 
own invention, which Raymond frankly 
declared execrable. Mile. Ferray con- 
fessed that it was not exquisite; but upon 
mature reflection she succeeded in explain- 
ing the reason, and pronounced it eatable. 

These small errors had no fatal results ; 
the house was not in jeopardy in the 


hands of Miss Rovel ; she set fire neither 
to the cellar nor the hay-loft; and, aside 
from the rabbits and the ducks, her 
cooking poisoned no one. And thus did 
this romantic girl appear to have fore- 
sworn romance forever, and to be deter- 
mined to seek happiness in a practical 
life. She might have been called a travel- 
ler, who, undeceived as to the hazardous 
paths where caprice had drawn her, as to 
the sombre and involved forests where 
she had been stumbling, as to the marshes 
where ignes fatui dance, with gladdened 
eyes contemplates the direct, only route 
she has just regained, and which once 
her fancies had disdained. 

Mile. Ferray was secretly troubled at 
this great wisdom, which seemed excess- 
ive to her. Meg appeared too different 
from her own self. She regretted her 
former transports, her stormy humors, 
the sallies of her froward pride. She 
could almost have implored Meg to insult 
her in some way ; for she complained of 
people she loved when they deprived her 
of the pleasure of pardoning something 
in them. If Meg was too perfect in Mile. 
Ferray’s judgment, in Raymond’s opin- 
ion she was too happy: his sick heart 
reproached her for being so well. As for 
the rest, he treated his disease brutally, 
carefully shunned every opportunity for 
a tHe-h-tete with Miss Rovel, saw her 
only at table or in his sister’s presence, 
and played his role of guardian with irre- 
proachable probity. Miss Rovel, on her 
part, was an exemplary ward, and in her 
conduct studied to conciliate deference 
with allowed familiarity. 


CHAPTER XI. 

One afternoon she went to walk in the 
wood. She held in her hand a volume of 
Mme. de Sevigne; this reading pleased 
her. By a little study, and through her 
conversations with Raymond, she had 
acquired enough literature to be able to 
perceive the consummate art hidden 
under the apparent nonchalance of this 
divine pen, and to appreciate the most 
charming form in which reason has ever 
invested itself, although, to tell the truth, 
Mme. de Sevigne was a little too reasona- 
able for her; the folly of loving her 
daughter desperately appeared to her in- 
sufficient to fill the void of time. To-day 
she had met in a letter dated March 9, 
1692, a passage which had particularly 
impressed her. She was about reading it 
for the third time, when, lifting her eyes 
from her book, she perceived, some steps 
before her, her guardian seated on the 
trunk of an overthrown tree. His head 
lowered, his arms swinging, he gazed at 
the running water ; he had a contracted 
face, a melancholy expression shadowed 


MISS ROYEL. 


69 


his features. His meditation was so pro- 
found that he was not aware of the ene- 
my’s approach. Meg stopped, then she 
stirred up with her foot a mass of dead 
leaves. N'ow he turned his head, and 
grew pale. She did not seem to remark 
his agitation; having gracefully ap- 
proached, she sat down at his side, and 
prayed him to explain to her some allu- 
sions of Mme. de Sevigne’s which she 
did not understand. He explained who 
Mme. de Pomponne was, and what were 
the philosophical principles of a certain 
Descartes, which the beautiful mother of 
Madelonne wished to know like the game 
of hombre, not to play, but to see it 
played. She listened naively, fixing upon 
his face her large eyes, attentive, inno- 
cent, thoughtful, like a good little girl 
who wishes to profit, and to gain instruc- 
tion. 

When he had told her all, she led him 
away. Upon arriving at a little crossing 
whence two paths branched off, Ray- 
mond wished to take that which led up 
to the house ; perhaps he had a presenti- 
ment of what awaited him. Miss Rovel 
obliged him to keep on in the path along 
the brook. He again took up Descartes, 
discoursing persistently upon him. She 
lent him her two ears ; but as they 
reached a place where the forest began 
to grow less dense, casting her eyes 
around her, and suddenly leaving Ray- 
mond’s arm, she cried, — 

“Ah, monsieur, what a remembrance! 
This deep water where I did not drown 
myself, this ash-tree where I concealed 
myself, and you here, at the foot of the 
tree, your hands clenched firmly, your 
teeth set — Ah, yes ! Good heavens, 
what a remembrance ! ” 

He did not appear to listen, and, raising 
‘his eyes to two magpies that were jabber- 
ing and chattering at the summit of a pop- 
lar, he said, “What an odious uproar! 
Who do these birds belong to?” 

“Who can know that?” replied she; 
“ but confess now, that you were furi- 
ous ! ” 

His nose still in the air, he said, “I 
never did hear magpies chatter in this 
way!” 

“It is their trade,” answered she; “all 
people who have voices like to make 
them heard; but have you never asked 
yourself why I made a feint of drowning 
myself?” 

“Do you ask me that, Miss Rovel? 
Ah ! it is a problem very easy to solve : 
you wanted the pleasure of making me 
take a cold bath.” 

“You were not present. It is of histo- 
ry as ancient as yesterday that we cannot 
speak. Imagine that I was then roman- 
tic and foolish, and that from the time 
of your encounter with M. de Boisgenet 
you had been my Amadis.” 


“ Your words are very true,” inter- 
rupted he ; “ these magpies have the devil 
in them; all this must be about some 
great household quarrel.” 

“Hadn’t we better climb the tree at 
once, to reconcile them?” asked Meg. 
“I tell you that at this time — Would 
you believe that one evening I was 
amusing myself in cutting up strips of 
paper upon which I had written, turning 
away my head, ‘ Miss Rovel is stupidly in 
love with M. Raymond Ferray.’ Wlien I 
gazed at what I had written, it seemed to 
me that the paper was a wretch who had 
discovered my secret, and kept repeating 
it to me in a loud voice, and, red with 
embarrassment, I burned it in my candle. 
Ah, monsieur ! It is not all to love : one 
would be. assured that one is loved in 
return. Then I made a feint of drown- 
ing myself, saying to myself, ‘When he 
finds me living, he will fall at my feet, 
exclaiming, “If you were dead, should 
I be able to survive you ?” ’ Alas! you 
know what happened. That was a very 
cruel moment to me ; for I repeat it, you 
were my Amadis.” 

Raymond made a violent effort at self- 
mastery, and succeeded in remarking 
calmly enough, “You would not to-day 
be tempted to subject me to such a 
proof.” 

“No, certainly not,” said Meg, with 
an air of good-fellowship. “I have be- 
come reasonable; I content myself with 
having a great friendship for you, and I 
am as sure of your friendship as you are 
of mine, mutual res.pect being our safe- 
guard.” 

“ Do not doubt it,” replied he with the 
weary air of a man to whose neck a mill- 
stone is attached. 

In her turn, she lifted her eyes toward 
the two birds who were scolding most 
beautifully, and said, “What are you 
saying of a household quarrel? It is a 
coquettish scene, and up there as down 
here, each plays his role. But I pray 
you, monsieur,” continued she, “see how 
. easy it is to find fault with these around 
you when the desire possesses you, and 
to give false colors to the most innocent 
things. What would prevent a malicious 
or a jealous man. Prince Natti or Mr. 
Gordon for example, from pretending 
that Miss Rovel, after having cursed her 
guardian, after having forsaken him, 
after having sworn to forget him, having 
met in the vast world no man who is his 
equal, took it into her head one morning 
to invent a pretext for drawing him to 
Florence, and that she wove some days 
later a little complot to oblige him to 
take her back to The Hermitage? This 
might very well be sustained, and behold 
how deceitful are appearances, and upon 
what reputations hang! ” 

At these words, seized by a sudden im- 


70 


MISS ROVEL. 


pulse, she exclaimed, ‘‘Heavens! the 
beautiful craw-fish ! ” and, extending her 
arms toward the brook, she darted up 
the hill with so impetuous a movement, 
that Raymond, fearing doubtless lest she 
might fall, held with his left hand to the 
knot of her girdle, while his right, resting 
upon her shoulder, touched lightly her 
neck and her chin. Prodigiously ab- 
sorbed as she was in her Crustacea, so 
much so that Raymond could not succeed 
in retaining her, Miss Rovel did not fail 
to prove that this hand was hot, trem- 
bling, palpitating; and in her agitation 
sh^ seemed to consult with herself as to 
what had happened to her, and what she 
was about to do. 

At the same instant, Raymond heard 
some one call him. He let gq his hold, 
recoiled some steps, and replied in an 
insecure voice, “Who wants me? I am 
here.” Mile. Ferray appeared; she 
came to tell her brother that his gardener 
wished instructions from him. Raymond 
immediately started for the house upon 
the run, as if he were making his escape, 
leaving his sister with Miss Rovel, who 
spoke brusquely to her, and, under th^ 
first pretence that offered, almost com- 
mitted that freak *the good lady was ex- 
l)ecting from day to day, and which 
charmed her like a reminiscence of the 
past. 

After having given his orders to the 
gardener, Raymond left The Hermitage 
for a walk. He had need of solitude to 
calm his heated brain, to restore a little 
order to his thoughts and resolutions. 
The walk did him good. He did not 
return home until nearly dusk. To re- 
gain his chamber he had to pass through 
the library; he entered, and perceived 
Miss Rovel in the embrasure of a win- 
dow ; she had fallen asleep in her chair. 
She had gone there to take back the vol- 
ume of Mme. de Sevigne, which she had 
finished reading; but, when about to 
place it back upon the shelf, she had 
wished to read again the passage which 
had so vividly impressed her in the forest. 
In re-reading it, sleep had overpowered 
her ; and this certainly was the first time 
Mme. de Sevigne ever made any one go to 
sleep. 

Raymond foresaw a danger more re- 
doubtable than that he had run on the 
borders of the brook, and he wished to 
beat a retreat. We cannot do all we 
wish ; an instant after, he was not more 
than two steps from the charming sleeper. 
Her head was slightly lifted, the lips 
gently parted by a half smile; her hair 
was unbound, and rolled over her breast 
and shoulders its beautiful silken waves. 
The volume remained open upon her 
knees. Drawing near on tiptoe, Ray- 
mond seized it, and read as follows : — 

“ You demand of me the symptoms of 


this love. It is, first of all, a living and 
all-absorbing negative; it is an exagger- 
ated indifference which proves the con- 
trary ; it is a suspension of every move- 
ment of this round machine, the world ; 
it is a relaxation from all ordinary cares, 
to apply yourself to one alone ; it is a 
perpetual satire against people in love. 
‘ Truly, one must be very insane, very 
foolish,’ you say. ‘What a young wo- 
man ! ’ And to this we reply inwardly, 
‘ Ah, yes I all this is true ; ’ but you do 
not cease to be in love ; you express 
your reflections; they are just, they are 
true, they are your torment, but you do 
not cease being in love; you are full of 
reason, but love is stronger than all rea- 
soning; you are ill, you weep, you are 
angry, and you are in love.” 

The book fell from his hands that were 
trembling from emotion and resentment. 
Yet once again he made a movement to 
retire ; and, as by an irresistible force, his 
feet led him toward the chair where Miss 
Rovel continued her peaceful slumber. 
With an ardent glance, he contemplated 
the delightful disorder- of her hair, and a 
tremor ran through all his veins. He 
seized one of the gilded locks, and rubbed 
it between his fingers; Miss Rovel did 
not awake. Then he inclined slowly 
toward her, as if to drink in her breath 
and her life ; she did not stir. The demon 
which possessed him was stronger than 
he ; his senses forsook him ; he imprinted 
a glowing kiss upon those smiling lips, 
which he thought he felt quiver under 
his. 

At that very instant he darted back to 
the wall, full of confusion, horrified at 
what he had just done. Miss Rovel 
started, passed her hand over her fore- 
head, opened her eyes, contemplating 
him with an astonished air. “ Ah I is it 
you, monsieur ? ” she asked. “I really 
thought I was asleep.” 

He fixed upon her his affrighted eyes ; 
it seemed to him as if his knees, steal- 
ing away from him, were about to precip- 
itate themselves at the feet of this 
dishevelled blonde, as if his lips were 
already moving to declare his trespass, as 
if his soul were escaping him. He re- 
called to mind the device which Ben- 
venuto Cellini has inscribed upon the 
pedestal of his Perseus, and which he 
had recited half aloud in traversing the 
Grand Ducal Square. His pride, coming 
to the aid of his heart in its extremity, 
cried out to him, “My*son, if any one 
wound thee, I will avenge thee.” And 
he succeeded in remaining upright. 

He said to himself, “Who are you? 
Is this really you ? Have you forgotten 
your past and even your name? What 
has become of your disdains and your 
resentments, your character and your 
will ? Is it possible that a man like you 


MISS KOVEL. 


71 


is at the mercy of a curl of golden hair 
und a smiling mouth? If you speak a 
word, if your knees yield, all is ended. 
You will no more belong to yourself, you 
will have surrendered yourself utterly, — 
and to whom ? To a precocious coquette, 
who knows not, who will never know, 
how to love, and who will make it her 
gloiy to have wrested from you an 
avowal over which she will triumph 
to-day, at which she will laugh to-mor- 
row. And if, through some impossibil- 
ity, she should love you as you love her, 
what can you hope ? What have you not 
to fear? How long would your happi- 
ness endure ? A few days, a few weeks 
•at most, and you would expiate this 
intoxication by remorse, disquietudes, 
distrust ; by incurable suspicions, by 
atrocious jealousies, by all those refined 
torments whose secret woman has, and 
by the insupportable ignominy of an eter- 
nal servitude.” 

While he was thus talking to himself, 
Meg said to him, “ Ah, well, monsieur, 
what are you gazing at in me ? Is there 
anything extraordinary about me ? ” 

He had not yet strength to reply ; but 
he drew himself up, and breathed more 
freely ; he felt that he was saved. 

“There! what is going to happen 
now?” resumed she, adjusting her hair. 

He finally recovered speech, and said to 
her in a gentle but firm voice, “Nothing 
is going to happen : re-assure yourself. I 
have been waiting until you were fully 
awake to announce a piece of news to 
you. I have made up my mind to depart 
upon a long journey.” 

She sprang excitedly to her feet. “ In- 
deed, that is a piece of news ! And may 
I ask what motive ” — 

“A work,” replied he, “an important 
work, which I have of late resumed. I 
am going to make some researches in the 
libraries of Paris, London, and Berlin.” 

She became red as glowing coals, her 
eyes flashed, she bit her lips. “Have 
you made known your resolution to Mile. 
Ferray ? ’ ’ she asked. 

“No: I have only just formed it; and 
it has cost me much. You know how 
domestic I am,” he added hurriedly. 

She picked up the volume that lay on 
the floor, placed it upon its proper shelf, 
and took down the next volume of the 
series. Her hands trembled, but her 
voice was steady and self-possessed, 
when, turning again to him, she asked, 
“ How soon (io you leave?” 

He was about to say “ To-morrow,” but 
it was impossible for him to pronounce the 
word, and he accorded himself the favor 
of a delay. “Within ten days,” he re- 
plied. 

She gazed at him steadily ; he bravely 
.sustained the fire. “I hope, monsieur, 
that you will write to me sometimes.” 


“Can you doubt it?” cried he. “Do 
you not know that my thoughts, my re- 
membrances ” — He stopped short ; then, 
recollecting himself, he succeeded in say- 
ing with an affected smile, “Miss Kovel, 
a guardian like me cannot forget a ward 
like you.” 

And, having bidden her good afternoon, 
he took refuge in his chamber, while 
she went to hers. Half an hour later, 
they met again in the dining-room. In 
the midst of the dinner, Raymond com- 
municated his project to his sister. She 
gazed at him in open-mouthed wonder, 
and obliged him to repeat the words. 
She glanced alternately at him and Meg, 
as if to read in the .eyes of both a re- 
sponse to the questions she asked herself. 
Was she to take this astonishing piece of 
news in good or ill part? Was this 
journey a wretched caprice, or the symp- 
tom of a complete cure ? Did Raymond 
desire to quit The Hermitage because the 
presence of Miss Rovel placed a re- 
straint upon his melancholy ? or must she 
believe that, renouncing his past, he had 
decided to re-enter active life, and to see 
the world again ? He relieved her anx- 
iety by saying almost gayly, “ What would 
you have, my dear ? It is all your fault. 
My journey to Florence has revived my 
wandering propensities. There is within 
me a thirst for travel, which will perhaps 
lead me to the end of the world.” 

“ But you promise us to return? ” 

“Assuredly,” said he, and proceeded 
to speak of other things. 

He remained for some time in the par- 
lor, assuming an easy and natural air. 
Wlien he felt that he had suflBciently 
borne his cross, he pressed his sister’s 
hand, bowed politely to Miss Rovel, and 
went up to his own rooms. 

After he had withdrawn, Meg paced 
up and down the parlor, with lowering 
glance, flaming cheeks, and a stormy 
brow; then taking a seat opposite Mile. 
Ferray, who was knitting mittens for an 
old woman of the neighborhood, she 
said in a sarcastic tone, “Do you know, 
mademoiselle, why M. Ferray will leave 
in ten days for a long journey?” 

“He has himself explained, my dear 
child,” responded Mile. Ferray. “My 
wish is fulfilled ; he has resumed his taste 
for Arabic, and his work demands im- 
portant researches.” 

“ Arabic is the least of his cares,” replied 
Meg with a shrug of the shoulders. “ A 
truce to this nonsense! What credulity 
you have ! Perhaps I am not polite : one 
learns not to be in this house, such things 
go on here. But in a word, mademoi- 
selle, would you like to know why your 
brother and my guardian have decided to 
start out and run over the world? Shall 
I tell you ? Will you listen to me ? It is 
because your brother and my guardian 


72 


MISS ROVEL. 


are desperately in love with. Miss Ko- 
vel.” 

At this strange piece of intelligence, 
Mile. Ferray dropped three stitches, and 
let her knitting-work fall upon her knees. 
“Have you lost your senses, Meg?” she 
cried. “ What means this monstrous in- 
vention? Whence do you assume that 
my brother — that your guardian ” — 

“But it must be so since it is so. 
Here is the proof. Suspicions had come 
to me, and I wished to have my mind 
clear. I had just reached the library, 
when I heard M. Ferray’ s step in the 
corridor. I threw myself upon a chair in 
the most graceful and romantic attitude I 
could think of, and I feigned to be sound 
asleep. He entered, drew back, ap- 
proached, revolved around me like a cat 
around a cheese. Then at last plucking 
up courage, for shame. Miss Agatha! 
he imprinted a loving kiss upon my 
mouth ; and I assure you the kissing was 
well done.” 

“Am I to believe you, or not? ” asked 
Mile. Ferray. “ And then you opened 
your eyes ? ” 

“You will confess that the least I could 
do was to awaken. Heavens ! what a 
comical air he had 1 — the air of a thief 
who has just been surprised with his 
hand in the sack. If I am not deceived, 
he straightway gave himself up to a pro- 
found deliberation, which lasted about an 
age. I have discovered, that, in adjusting 
his little affairs of conscience, M. Ferray 
adopts the system of the two houses. 
His House of Commons voted that he 
throw himself upon his knees, and make 
me a formal declaration ; but the House 
of Lords — you see from here those ma- 
jestic, hammer-headed old men— exhorted 
him not to compromise his precious 
dignity ; and the Lords had the final word. 
It is through their counsel that he has 
conjured up this idea of telling us he has 
business in Paris; and in a week he is 
going to run away.” 

To Mile. Ferray, this recital seemed 
most extraordinary, most incredible, 
more preposterous than all the stories of 
the Blue Library. If they had come to 
announce to her that the Emperor of 
China had fallen in love with herself, and 
had sent to demand her hand in mar- 
riage, she would have been less surprised ; 
and yet Meg was so lucid, so persistent 
in her affirmations, that at last she 
believed her. And moreover, since Mile. 
Ferray had learned that her brother had 
been at a mask-ball, she had decided that 
all is possible. 

For some time she maintained a pro- 
found silence ; then after many prologues, 
preambles, prefaces, introductions, after 
an array of periphrases and circumlocu- 
tions, changing color at every word, after 
re-adjusting her head-dress, and scratch- 


ing her forehead with her knitting-needle,, 
she plucked up courage to propound a. 
question to Meg, which was designed to 
ascertain if she allowed herself to admit, 
that, some day or other, one could reason- 
ably suppose — 

She did not reach the end of her ques- 
tion ; scarce one feeble ray of light had 
come to illumine the idea she would feign 
express, when it plunged back into the- 
darkness. 

“ Your questions are not clear,” replied 
Meg with a smile which was not amiable ;; 
“but I think I divine that you would 
perhaps like to know if it is allowable to 
admit that some day the passion of M. 
Ferray for his ward might meet a return. 
To speak frankly with you, I have some 
friendship for him, but not a bit of love. 
How could I love him? There is be- 
tween us such a difference ' in age, in. 
character, in opinions, in tastes! You 
might shut us up, him and me, in a cage ; 
and, by day after to-morrow, one would 
have eaten the other ! 

“ Good heavens ! I do not say but that 
if, after the little liberty he liad been 
taking with me, he had thrown himself 
at my feet to implore my pardon, to de- 
clare his passion for me, if he had cried 
out with great ardor and in a fine accent, 
‘Miss Kovel, I love you, I adore you ! ’ 
perhaps my heart might have been 
moved ; perhaps, in the course of time — 
But I tell you. Miss Agatha, your 
brother and my guardian have too much 
pride ; and, when one has a great deal of 
pride, one does not know how to love ; and 
I am so constituted that it would be im- 
possible for me to love a man who did not 
love me as I wish to be loved. Every one 
has his or her fantasy. This is mine.” 

Mile. Ferray undertook to defend her 
brother, and made great effort to demon- 
strate to Meg that she took for haughti- 
ness, the scruples of an exaggerated 
delicacy, and a too sensitive feeling of 
honor. Meg’s only response was a shake 
of the head, while with her pretty cat-like- 
nails she poutingly unravelled the fringe 
of her girdle. Finally, interrupting Mlie. 
Ferray, she said, — 

“If you should argue until to-morrow 
you could not prevent M. Ferray being a. 
haughty, arrogant man, and arrogant 
men are iijDt to my taste. Since his pride 
is his supreme good and his adored mis- 
tress, let him form projects to show her 
the world ; let him take her to Paris, to 
London, to Pekin, and may God bless- 
their pilgrimage !” 

Mile. Ferray relapsed into silence ; she- 
seemed to be in deep reflection. At last 
she said with a sigh, “My brother is 
right, Meg ; he does well to depart. I 
even regret that he cannot depart to-mor- 
row ; but I have one prayer to address to> 
you. I demand it of you as a favor, not 


MISS ROVEL. 


73 


to let him suspect that you have surprised 
"his secret. ” 

“Re-assure yourself,” answered Meg, 
in a tone of the deepest irony. “ I am more 
generous than you think ; I have pity for 
this great misfortune, and this disastrous 
shipwreck of an illustrious wisdom which 
believed itself secure from all hazards. 
It shall never be said, that these two eyes 
you see here have witnessed it.” 

With these words, Miss Rovel rose, 
coldly embraced Mile. Ferray, and, hum- 
ming a tune, ascended the staircase lead- 
ing to her chamber. She found Pamela 
in the vestibule, her eyes heavy with 
sleep, her head wabbling to and fro. 
She was waiting to assist her mistress in 
her toilet for the night. Meg shook her 
off, saying, “Eternal sleeper, were you 
dreaming of a prince, a duke, or a mar- 
quis ? ” 

“ All, mademoiselle, ” replied the ne- 
gress, . “what can one do better than 
sleep or dream in this lugubrious house, 
which reeks with enmd ? I am a dead 
woman if I remain here a month longer.” 

“ Triple simpleton that you are!” re- 
turned Meg; “who asks you to remain 
here? Since you love change and ad- 
venture, you shall soon have enough of 
them to satisfy you ; I promise you that 1 ” 

And, pinching Pamela’s arm with such 
vehemence as to wrest from her a cry of 
pain. Miss Rovel added, “Learn that I 
am angry, and that in my anger I am 
capable of all.” 


Mlle. Ferray lay awake a large por- 
tion of the night meditating upon the 
strange recital Miss Rovel had made to her. 
Never did mathematician more persistent- 
ly turn and re-turn a complicated problem 
in his head, never apply to its solution more 
transcendent powers of analysis, than 
Mile. Ferray employed in seeking some 
clew to this mysterious and unparalleled 
event. A woman of her character re- 
quired little time to reconcile her mind to 
an occurrence which at the first moment 
seemed incredible to her. Going on from 
syllogism to syllogism, she arrived at the 
conclusion that the event which had at 
first appeared a misfortune was one of 
the happiest of providential dispensations. 

La Fontaine has said that lame people 
hate home. Mile. Ferray did not hate 
home at all, for the reason, that, without 
change of place, she journeyed to her 
heart’s content. Her imagination gal- 
loped so fast, that events could hardly 
\ catch up with it, and her dreams were 
'rose colored from habit. After her well- 
known indulgence had explained every 
thing, her optimism assumed the task of 
arranging every thing. She arranged 


matters so well, that to-night, while 
she slept, in the space of one revolv- 
ing year Raymond had married Meg, 
and from the marriage had been born 
a superb infant, with the tawny com- 
plexion of its father, and the blonde 
hair of its mother. 

In our night-dreams all is easy, all 
yields, all bends ; but when day arrives- 
we perceive to our cost, that walls are 
impenetrable, that barriers of iron do not 
yield like reeds ; that tiles are heavy, and 
it is painful to receive one of them on 
your head ; that, so far as mind and mat- 
ter are concerned, it is the fundamental 
property of all mundane' things to resist 
our fantasies. When Mile. Ferray rose 
from her bed, she had the chagrin of ex- 
periencing the inexorable resistances of 
life. 

As soon as she had made her morning 
toilet, availing herself of the first pr,etext 
that occurred to her mind, she went to 
her brother’s apartments, resolved to com- 
pel him within his intrenchments to dem- 
onstrate to her that all could be arranged. 
She found him so calm, so smiling, so 
gently resolute, he explained to her in so 
deliberate a manner the desire he had to 
see Paris again, and the profit he expect- 
ed to derive from his journey, that she 
was entirely disconcerted. 

But she felt that she must strike 
one decisive blow; and, to put him 
to the proof, she declared that she 
had apprehensions as to remaining 
alone at The Hermitage with Miss Rovel. 
How was she to control those exuberant 
spirits ? or, in an extreme case, how was 
she to subdue the rebellion of this child,, 
who was no longer a child? Raymond 
replied to his sister, that her fears had 
slight foundation, that Meg was too much 
attached to her to cause her grave anxie- 
ties ; but he assured her, that, if any thing 
especial occurred, she had only to inform, 
him, and he would hasten home immedi- 
ately. 

Still Mile. Ferray persisted in stating 
her apprehensions. “ Since it is my duty 
to tell you all, my good brother, ” said 
she, “lam going to mention to, you an 
incident of which I have not spoken for 
fear of disquieting you. Since Meg’s re- 
turn to The Hermitage, she has received 
two letters from Florence, and they came 
at an interval of only two days. I saw the 
address, and it did not appear to me to be 
written by a woman’s hand. I questioned 
her upon the subject, but could not draw 
from her the least explanation. ” 

He reflected a moment; then he replied 
with perfect composure, “Do not give 
yourself the least uneasiness ; it is evident 
that these letters come from Lady Rovel, 
who is in the habit of taking for her 
secretary the first paper-scratcher who 
comes to hand; or they may have been 


I 


74 


MISS EOVEL. 


written by M. de Boisgenet or by any oth- 
er of the numerous adorers Miss Eovel 
liad harnessed to her car, all of whom 
must have been thrown into consterna- 
tion by her sudden departure. But this 
matters little ; no harm will result from 
the correspondence. If Miss Eovel had 
cherished any serious attachment in Flor- 
ence, we should have been obliged to put 
thumb-sci-ews upon her to bring her back 
to The Hermitage ; that is as self-evident 
as an axiom of geometry. I am con- 
vinced, that, although her time is hasten- 
ing on, the hour of serious passion has 
not struck for this little girl. She sports 
with life and with people like a kitten 
with its shadow. And then she possesses 
a foundation of good sense and of sound 
judgment which ought to re-assure us.” 

All this was said so calmly, so naturally, ^ 
that Mile. Ferray began to suspect Meg 
of having related idle tales to divert her- 
self, and to hoax the anxious, credulous 
sister of her guardian. She did not sus- 
pect that Eaymond’s serenity arose from 
great strength of mind and am almost per- 
fect self-control ; that, as soon as she left 
him, he remained immovable, his face 
buried in his hands, and that, hearing 
under his window the voice and the laugh 
of Miss Eovel, he rose with a sudden 
start, pale as death, compressing so tight- 
ly between his fingers a little silver-gilt 
spoon with which he sanded his papers, 
tliat he broke it into two pieces. 

If her brother’s tranquillity astonished 
Mile. Ferray, Meg’s conduct gave her 
much to think of. For the last two days 
Miss Eovel had shown singular caprices, 
an irritable humor, a flushed complexion, 
abrupt, almost rude manners, forced gay- 
ety, a lowering glance. Mile. Ferray re- 
garded her with perplexed eyes. If she 
had been assured of the ability to mend 
it so that the rent would not have been 
iippareiit, she would gladly have opened 
Meg’s head to see what was inside it; per- 
haps she would have discovered there 
some sinister conspiracy, some veritable 
powder-plot. 

One morning she went to Meg’s room, 
resolved to try yet once more to bring her 
to the confessional, and, to her great sur- 
prise, found the girl conveying a portion 
of her linen from the bureau-drawers to 
a trunk. Before the good lady had a mo- 
ment’s time to question her. Miss Eovel 
complained that the drawers had a moul- 
dy smell. Mile. Ferray examined them 
carefully, and assured herself that they 
were in good condition. “ This merely 
proves, ” said Meg coolly, “ that we have 
not the same ideas as to dryness and hu- 
midity. ” 

In the afternoon of the same day, a 
little before twilight, as Mile. Ferray was 
crossing the terrace, with watering-pot 
in hand, she was almost overthrown 


by a whirlwind bursting suddenly upon 
her, and crying out, “I am going to 
take a turn around the garden and 
orchard to warm my feet. ” At the end 
of half an hour, not seeing the child re- 
turn, Mile. Ferray feared that she had 
lingered too long in the grove or orchard, 
and had become chilled. She took a 
shawl on her arm, and started in pursuit. 
When she reached the border of the 
stream, she imagined she heard the mur- 
mur of two voices, and, an instant arfet, 
she recognized that of Meg. These 
words, distinctly uttered, met her ear; 
“ Yery well ; I will do as you wish. ” 

Mile. Ferray, curious by nature, had 
for a few days past found good reason to 
be more curious than ever ; but she felt 
an instinctive, an irresistible horror of 
any thing resembling treachery. Ardent 
as was her desire to know to whom, and 
to what proposal, Meg had just made this 
deliberate assent, instead of remaining 
silent so as to hear more, she at once 
called out “ Miss Eovel ! ” in a loud voice. 
Meg answered immediately, and, running 
to meet her, she cried breathlessly, “You 
arrive in good time, mademoiselle; this 
man was beginning to frighten me.” 
As she spoke these words, she seized 
Mile. Ferray by the two shoulders, made 
her wheel around, and led her out of the 
grove. 

“ A man who could have it in his heart 
to frighten 2/OM.^ ” said Mile. Ferray, en- 
veloping Meg in the shawl she carried on 
her arm, “ who is this hero ? ” 

“A sort of marauder, a bone-hunter, 
who came up on the other side of the 
brook* and who asked alms of me in a 
familiar, insolent tone ; I at first refused ; 
he made a movement as if to cross the 
stream, and come over to me. ‘ I will do 
as you wish,’ said I to him, and threvr my 
purse in his face.” 

As Mile. Ferray, somewhat incredulous, 
gazed at her with questioning eyes, she 
added, laughing, “Do you not believe 
me? You are right: this good-for-noth- 
ing is a lover, who proposes to elope with 
me. ” 

“Shall I tell you what most displeases 
me in you ? ” returned Mile. Ferray. “ It 
is, that it is impossible to know whether 
you jest, or speak in earnest. ” 

“ Prince Natti once made me the same 
reproach, when I was in Florence. Well, 
we are what we are ; we cannot re-create 
ourselves. ” 

“ I do not agree with you upon that 
point,” replied Mile.* Ferray. “I have 
always believed that the desire to render 
ourselves agreeable to those who love us, 
is capable of working miracles. ” 

These words made an impression upon 
Meg. She seemed almost moved. “Miss 
Agatha, ” cried she, “the devil is not as 
black as they pretend, and I wish to 


MISS ROVEL. 


75 


make you a promise. I do not know how- 
many times 'more mamma is going to 
leave me here : I am aware that her great 
concern just now is to find a husband 
for me, and I am resolved not to dispute 
her choice, whatever it may he. But I 
can promise you, that so long as I remain 
here, and during the absence of mon- 
sieur your brother, I will be good, sweet, 
charming ; that hereafter I will show you 
all the letters the post brings me. ” 

Moved even to tears by this amiable 
impulse, Mile. Ferray expressed her grati- 
tude to Meg. ‘‘You could give me one 
token of friendship more precious still,” 
she said; “be perfectly sincere, decide to 
open your heart to me.” 

“ Ah ! I see what you are coming at !” 
answered Meg. “ Mademoiselle, I declare 
to you once for all, that the event you 
desire is impossible; in the first place, 
because I do not love M. Ferray : in the 
second place, because he does not love me 
well enough. His love is like apples too 
ripe on one side, too green on the other. 
I detest fruits badly ripened; they are 
rather sour, and set the teeth on edge.” 

Whether Mile. Ferray’ s reproaches had 
touched her, or whether from some other 
cause known to herself alone, the ill 
wind which had for two days blown over 
Miss Kovel all at once subsided. Her 
mind seemed at rest, her nerves grew 
calm, her glance softened, she indulged 
in no more brusqueries or caprices. She 
showed an affectionate politeness to her 
guardian, questioned him with great in- 
terest as to his plans for travel, charged 
him to write often, and promised to reply 
immediately. Mile. Ferray no longer 
knew what to believe: she resolved to 
make no further attempts to fathom the 
mystery, but to yield herself up to the 
fates with a bandage before her eyes. 

Every night, at about eleven o’clock, 
Kaymond made the tour of the house and 
its dependencies, to assure himself that 
nothing unusual was passing in his clois- 
ter. that the doors were closed, and the 
fires extinguished. On the evening be- 
fore the day irrevocably fixed for his de- 
parture, just as he had finished his 
nocturnal rounds, a weakness came over 
• him, such a weakness as only a man sure 
of his strength can allow himself. Miss 
Kovel had just gone up to her chamber. 
Its windows opened on the path by 
which Kaymond had returned to the 
house, and Kaymond imagined that he 
should go to sleep more easily after hav- 
ing seen a certain shadow flit to and fro 
upon tliQ curtain. 

M. Ferray looked his love in the face 
as a man sentenced to die, and who is to 
be executed on the morrow, confronts 
death : we can but have some indulgence 
for the last fantasies of the condemned. 
He retraced his steps, re-opened the gate 


leading from the court, and halted at a 
portion of the fence shaded by a lime- 
tree. There he leaned against a jjost 
until his wish was gratified. For two 
minutes he gazed at a white-muslin cur- 
tain, upon which passed and repassed a 
graceful shadow. Soon he recognized the 
outlines of another shadow, more opaque, 
far less ethereal; and Pamela, drawing 
aside the curtain, opened the window, 
gazed an instant into the night, then 
closed the shutters, and all was over. 

Kaymond was just leaving his ambus- 
cade, when he heard the sound of an 
advancing footstep. Ashamed of the in- 
fatuation which had led him to commit 
an act so unworthy of a philosopher and 
a man of honor, jealous of exposing his 
weakness to the whole universe, his 
troubled conscience feared a passer-by, 
and he wished to give the intruder time 
to leave the place. 

There was no moon, the sky was veiled, 
and the night obscure. Kaymond sounded 
the shadows with his glance, but dis- 
cerned amid them no human form. Soon 
the footfall was silenced; the passer-by 
had halted or gone back. As, for a sec- 
ond time, he made a movement to leave 
his hiding-place, an odd incident held 
him immovable. After having given her 
attentions to her young mistress, Pamela, 
with lamp in hand, had gone down to 
her chamber, which was in the lower 
story. She approached the window, 
which was grated, lighted a wax taper, 
and passed it into the space between two 
bars, employing the entire length of her 
arm. Was this a signal? Was this a 
a pharos ? The pedestrian who had halt- 
ed resumed his walk, and the negress 
soon extinguished her light. An instant 
after, some person brushed against the 
wall, and advanced to the grated window, 
where began a long whispering in a key 
by turns sharp and tender, but so low 
that Kaymond, intently listening, could 
not catch a single word. 

He could but felicitate himself upon 
this occurrence. For a long time he had 
been endeavoring to spy out some good 
and sufficient reason for discharging Pa- 
mela, whom he did not think a desirable 
person to have near his ward during his 
absence. He thanked the kind fortune 
that had aided him so well, and he was 
just going to step out and report himself, 
when Pamela abruptly closed the window, 
and the man departed in haste, making 
rapid strides over the path by which he 
had come. 

In his quality of judge-advocate, pro- 
ceeding to an examination, Kaymond 
regretted that the bird had flown without 
allowing him time to take its description. 
He would not compromise his dignity by 
running after it, and so, drawing back a 
few paces, he took a path which cut 


76 


MISS HOVEL. 


across the fields, and regained the direct 
route opposite a window where a lamp 
was lighted in moonless nights. Having 
arrived here, Raymond perceived, to his 
displeasure, that the lantern lacked oil; 
its light was so feeble that the man 
passed without allowing him an opportu- 
nity to examine his features. All he 
could ascertain was, that his hat was of 
black felt, that he was tall in stature, and 
had the appearance neither of a lackey 
nor a day-laborer. 

“Why may it not be a prince?” he 
asked himself gayly ; and he reflected that 
Pamela was not a vulgar soul, that man 
had begun for her with nothing less than 
a marquis, that after having won the 
favor of a marquis she Avould naturally 
look higher, that this African Diana 
aimed her arrows only at large game. 

All at once, a sharp sorrow pierced his 
heart like a sword. It occurred to him 
that this night-wanderer he had surprised 
so near the house, might be in quest, not 
of a n egress, but of a beautiful white 
girl who was Raymond Ferray’s ward, 
that perhaps this supposed adorer of 
thick lips only employed them to trans- 
mit messages. He was seized with a 
violent tremor : it seemed to him that the 
lantern, suddenly relighted, gave forth a 
dazzling glow, and that he perceived at 
the end of the path a man who walked 
hastily, rubbing his hands, and snapping 
his fingers at him ; he thought that the 
man also in a loud voice made known 
his name, but Raymond did not under- 
stand it. He said to himself half aloud, 
“Renounce her, I am capable of that; 
but to allow any one to steal her from 
me, that is too much to demand of me.” 
And his hatred passed in review the 
faces of all the men of his acquaint- 
ance. 

But he gradually recovered from this 
tremor, he combated his imagination, he 
tried to demonstrate to himself that his 
suspicions were absurd ; and while thus 
reasoning he reached The Hermitage 
court, whose gate he had left open. Fate 
decreed that he should find another man 
here, but not so mysterious an individual 
as the one he had just seen. This man 
having stumbled against a post, and 
grazed his knee, was indulging in impre- 
cations against ill-lighted houses. Ray- 
mond took a phosphorus match from his 
watch-pocket, and re-lighted the lantern 
before the gate. From the metallic plate 
which glittered on the front of his cap, 
he recognized in this booby an official 
messenger, and roughly asked him to 
whom he had been sent, and what he 
wanted. The fellow, who was the worse 
for wine, replied that he had been sent 
with a small parcel to The Hermitage, 
that, owing to false instructions as to the 
route, he had lost his way, and that since 


three o’clock he had been asking it from 
house to house. 

“And from tavern to tavern,” inter- 
posed Raymond. “Where is your 
parcel ?” 

The messenger, who could scarcely 
stand upright, fumbled for some minutes 
in his pockets, and finally drew out a 
little box carefully enveloped in gray 
paper, tied with twine, and sealed. He 
showed the box to Raymond without 
handing it to him, and said, “ This is for 
a young lady who lives here, and I was 
expressly charged to deliver it into her 
own hands.” 

Raymond excitedly snatched the parcel 
from him. What does not a troubled 
mind invent? A single moment had 
sufficed him to construct a history, com- 
plete to the minutest details. Under that 
gray paper he crumpled between his 
fingers, lay concealed a letter which they 
had not dared confide to the post ; that 
letter had been written by the nocturnal 
promenader whose features he had not 
been able to distinguish, and who had 
come in quest of an immediate response, 
not suspecting that his Mercury had for- 
gotten himself in an inn. 

“Who sends you?” asked he of the 
messenger. 

“Ah, well! If we had to know the 
names of all the world, mine would be a 
very cumbersome trade,” replied he. 

“Was it not a tall man in a black-felt 
hat?” proceeded Raymond, boiling over 
with impatience. 

“What the deuce does that concern 
you?” answered the messenger; “do 
you wish to buy the hat of him ?” 

“ You are a winebibber and a knave,” 
said Raymond savagely, and closed the 
gate in the impudent fellow’s face. Then 
he hastened to his chamber, placing the 
box on the table the moment he entered. 
He examined the box, the handwriting, 
the device on the seal ; the more he gazed 
at it, the more suspicious became its 
appearance. It had, he thought, a sinis- 
ter and wicked physiognomy. This tied, 
sealed bonbon box surely contained 
some deadly poison. He felt it already 
running through his veins, and attacking 
the very sources of his life. 

He took the scissors, and was about to 
cut the cord ; but as before, on the route, 
he began to talk with himself half aloud. 
“Bartholo lives still,” said he, “here he 
is!” And he placed his finger on his 
forehead. He felt a transport of fury 
against the blonde locks which had done 
such violence to his character, and sub- 
jected him to so many humiliations. 
This sort of hatreds are only reversed 
loves, and the wrong side of the stuff 
resembles the right side so much, that 
we often confound the one with the 
other. Still it was w^l for Raymond 


MISS ROVEL. 


77 


that he had evoked the guardian of 
Rosina, for he went to bed without 
having cut the cord. 

The next morning, when he went down 
to breakfast, he had the box in his 
pocket. During the repast, they con- 
versed only on trifling subjects; but at 
dessert Miss Rovel asked Mile. Ferray, if 
there had not come for her a little parcel 
she was expecting from Florence. 

Raymond gazed at her steadily. “ Par- 
don my negligence,” he said: “this pack- 
age was handed me last night by a 
messenger the worse for wine; but he 
did not bring it from Florence, he came 
from Geneva, sent by an unknown man 
of tall statue, and wearing a black-felt 
hat. That is all I was able to draw from 
the clown.” 

“Whether the unknown be short or 
tall, whether he wears a hat or not,” re- 
turned Miss Rovel merrily, “ I am en- 
chanted that his parcel arrived safe.” 

And, Raymond having passed her the 
box, she carefully examined the envelope, 
then she placed it near her plate, and 
began to drum upon the table with her 
knife. 

In spite of himself, Raymond’s eyes 
kept wandering over to that sinister gray 
paper. Miss Rovel evidently perceived 
this, for she said to him point blank, 
“ How much reason you have to de- 
ride women, monsieur, they are so curi- 
ous! Just look at Mile. Ferray! She 
is tortured by a desire to know what is 
inside this gray paper. Shall I give her 
that satisfaction ? Inside this paper there 
is a jewel-box, within the box is a medal- 
lion, and within the medallion there is, 
upon my honor, a very pretty picture.” 

“Wliose picture?” asked Raymond, 
feigning indifference.” 

She threw back her head with an air of 
bravado. “The picture of some one I 
love a great deal more than you do ; of 
some one in whom you find a thousand 
faults, while I find none at all ; the picture 
of a person whose society you enjoy but 
very little, while I enjoy it very much ; of 
a person against whom you defend your- 
self as against the very devil, and to 
whom I tell all my secrets.” 

“Who is this monsieur?” asked Ray- 
mond in a hollow voice. 

“ Have I said that it was a monsieur? ” 
returned she, drawing back like a cat 
that, before strangling a mouse, permits 
him to breathe an instant, and bid his 
adieus to life. Then she exclaimed, 
“ But really, guardians have the right to 
know all!” And cutting the cord, and 
breaking tho seal, she unfolded the paper 
wrappings with a calculating slowness 
that exasperated Raymond. She drew 
from the envelope a jewel-box, and from 
the jewel-box a medallion, which she 
presented open to her guardian, who 


found that the medallion contained a 
charming picture upon enamel of Miss 
Rovel herself. 

He let a sigh of relief escape him ; and, 
with the gayety of a man who has had 
the rope around his neck, and from 
which it has been suddenly removed, he 
said, “It is charming, this picture; who 
is the fortunate possessor of it ? and how 
can he consent to restore it to you?” 

“Guardians have the right to know 
all,” responded she. “I had this picture 
painted in Florence for my brother Wil- 
liam. Barbadoes is such a long distance 
away, that I feared it might be lost on 
the route, and I preferred to keep it until 
I should find a person who would like to 
possess it. I wrote to mamma to send 
the miniature to me at the first conven- 
ient opportunity; the opportunity has 
occurred, and here is the picture. I 
have some desire to let it see the world 
in good and safe company. You would 
perhaps be willing to take it with you to 
Paris ; the copy will incommode you far 
less than the original.” 

Raymond was greatly, embarrassed in 
expressing his thanks; he could not rid 
himself of a feeling of distrust, and his 
glance sought to pry into the jewel-case 
which had remained in the hands of Miss 
Rovel; it might have a double depth, 
thought he. Meg divined his suspicions, 
and, rising, she said to him, “The medal- 
lion, the casket, the gray paper, the 
twine, the seals, — I give them all to you, 
and the mysteries of my whole life into 
the bargain!” and, throwing them all 
pell-mell upon the table, she ran away 
laughing. 

For some hours after this, Raymond 
had a singularly light heart. He smoked 
a cigar upon the terrace, and he discov- 
ered that the sky was of the most deli- 
cate blue ; that April is a delicious 
month ; that, after a long illness, the sun 
had just entered upon convalescence ; that 
the trills of the birds, and the newly- 
clothed hedges, vied in celebrating the res- 
urrection of nature; that the air- was 
pervaded by odors of the spring ; that the 
world had been made by an all-wise, benef- 
icent Being ; that every thing comes out 
right to him who knows how to wait ; and 
that nocturnal wanderers have an excel- 
lent habit of preferring negresses to white 
women. 

Nevertheless, his suspicions all at once 
re-awoke, when, seeing Pamela cross the 
court with a gayly-plumed hat upon her 
head, he asked her where she was going, 
and she replied that Miss Rovel had sent 
her to the town to make purchases. 

“Do not loiter on the way, you lazy 
thing!” cried Meg, making her appear- 
ance at the gate. The negress heard the 
admonition, and started off at a brisk 
pace. 


78 


MISS ROVEL. 


Raymond approached his ward, and 
said to her, “It is my desire. Miss Rovel, 
that this girl he immediately dismissed 
from your service.” And he proceeded 
to tell her, that last night, upon going 
out as usual, to assure himself that the 
court-yard gates were securely closed, he 
had surprised the negress at her window 
exchanging tender phrases with a stranger. 

“Is that really true?” cried Meg with 
some emotion, which she quickly re- 
pressed, as she asked, “Did he wear a 
felt hat? ” 

“That does not matter,” answered 
Raymond, twisting his mustache; “this 
Pamela is a brazen-faced creature, and I 
long to see her take to her heels.” 

“Pshaw!” cried Meg; “like all the 
rest of the world, she has needs of the 
heart ; we should be indulgent to suscep- 
tible souls. ’ ’ Then, changing the subject. 
Miss Rovel begged her guardian to take 
a walk with her in the park. He replied 
coldly, that it grieved him exceedingly to 
deprive her of this pleasure, but he too 
had purchases to make in the city, and, 
his departure on his travels being fixed 
for to-morrow, they could not be delayed. 

“ I do not like men who are so sure of 
their resolutions,” returned Meg, and, so 
saying, she turned her back to him. 

A few moments later, Raymond started 
for Geneva at a rapid pace. He was 
well enough acquainted with the indo- 
lent gait of the negress, to flatter him- 
self, that, in spite of Miss Rovel’ s injunc- 
tions as to haste, he should regain the 
advance she had made upon him. And 
yet, although he walked rapidly, Pamela 
come very near escaping him. He 
reached the outskirts of the town with- 
out having caught up with her; but at 
the summit of the hill crowned by a 
Russian church, as he was casting his 
sparrow-hawk eyes around him, he per- 
ceived a gay shawl and a scarlet plume 
crossing a square, in the direction of the 
Grand Quay. He hastened on, and in a 
moment saw that they were about to pass 
the bridge. He did not lose sight of 
them, and soon ascertained that they 
had entered the Hotel des Bei'gues. 

In his turn he crossed the bridge, and 
established himself at the Isle Bousseau, 
upon a bench facing the entrance of the 
hotel. After ten minutes of feverish 
waiting, he saw the negress come out of 
the hotel. He made no effort to detain 
her. P»ut meanwhile, having lifted his 
eyes, he was startled at seeing upon a 
balcony, a man of tall stature and elegant 
form, wearing a felt hat. This man was 
well known to Raymond: his name was 
Prince Sylvio Natti. 

Raymond immediately left his bench; 
* and so well did he take his paces, that 
Pamela was at quite a distance from The 
Hermitage, when she felt a hand pressing 


her arm like a vice, and some one cried 
out to her, “Deliver to me this instant 
the letter you bear from Prince Natti.” 

If it had been in her power, the ne- 
gress would have grown pale and white 
from terror. The ferocious glances which 
Raymond hurled at her were certainly 
not calculated to re-assure her. Still she 
tried to assume an audacious role, and, 
melting into indignant tears, she pro- 
tested that M. Ferray insulted her; that 
she "was an honest girl, celebrated in 
both the Old and the New World for her 
discretion; that she was incapable of 
lending her aid to any transaction which 
would not be sanctioned by the most 
rigid morality. Then, changing her tone, 
she feigned to confess to M. Ferray, with 
an air of affrighted modesty, that Prince 
Natti was in love with her; that for her 
sake he lost food and sleep, and that 
she had betaken herself to the Hotel des 
Bergues, to adjure him to respect her 
honor, and to cease a pursuit which, in 
the nature of things, must be hopeless. 

“ Hand me that letter! ” repeated Ray- 
mond, almost dislocating her arm. Pa- 
mela emptied the pocket of her dress, 
turning it wrong side out to prove to him 
that it contained nothing contraband. 
She had first drawn out her handkerchief, 
which she kept in her hand; Raymond 
took the handkerchief, shook it, and let 
fall a paper, which he hastened to pick 
up. This paper was a letter. He Avas 
about to break the seal, but upon reflec- 
tion he contented himself with placing 
it in his pocket-book. “ I give you from 
now until night to pack up your clothes,” 
he said to Pamela. “ To-morrow, at 
dawn, you leave my house, never to 
enter it again! ” 

Leaving Pamela to her reflections, he 
hurried on to The Hermitage. He found 
Miss Rovel in the parlor ; she Avas seated 
opposite Mile. Ferray, who had no suspi- 
cion that this angel lodged the devil in 
her eyes. They were engrossed in un- 
tangling a skein of silk, Meg’s wrists 
serving Mile. Ferray as a reel. Raymond 
seated himself at some distance from 
them, his hand pressed against his heart, 
whose violent beatings he vainly sought 
to control. When dinner Avas announced. 
Miss Rovel took his arm to pass into the 
dining-room ; she seemed to have no per- 
ception of the tortures she was inflicting 
upon his heart. For the sake of appear- 
ances, Raymond made a pretence of eat- 
ing, but his throat Avas choked, his 
breath was short: he bore upon his 
breast a mountain’s Aveight, and the 
mountain, he was very sure, would not 
bring forth a mouse this time. 

As soon as dinner was over, he said to 
his sister, “ I desire to have a particular 
interview with Miss Rovel ; let us be left 
alone for a few minutes.” 


MISS ROVEL. 


79 


These words made Mile. Ferray open 
her eyes wide. It seemed a physical im- 
possibility to her to believe in misfortune ; 
her eternal optimism incontinently im- 
agined that Raymond, whose agitation 
had not escaped her, was at the end of 
his resistance; that he felt himself no 
longer master of his secret, that he had 
resolved to declare himself to Miss Rovel ; 
the fortress was about to be called upon 
to surrender; it would rear the white 
flag, and, no doubt, the conqueror would 
be generous. Mile. Ferray hastened to 
withdraw. Thanks to the celerity of her 
hopes, upon reaching the end of the 
room, she had already won the certain 
conviction that all would be arranged 
for the best; that before an hour her 
brother would have unpacked his trunks ; 
as she closed the door, she beheld again 
that phenomenal infant with dark com- 
l^lexion, and hair of golden hue. 

“ Miss Rovel,” said Raymond, after sev- 
eral efforts to speak, — efforts that had 
proved ineffectual because of the tremor 
in his voice, — “ Miss Rovel, here is a 
letter which Pamela has brought from 
the city. You said this morning that 
guardians have the right to know all ; I 
desire to know the contents of this letter, 
and I am of your opinion that I have the 
right to know.” 

He handed her the letter; she crum- 
beld it between her fingers, while her 
face was covered with blushes; then, 
having decided to open it, she read the 
note aloud. It contained these words : — 

“ Your objections are only evasions ; I 
have your promise ; it is too late for you 
to recall that promise, and it must stand. 
It must be, I wish it ; only a few days have 
passed since you permitted me to wish it. 
Before midnight, I shall await you at 
the window which you Imow. Yours for 
life.” 


For a moment such a silence reigned in 
the room, that the flies could have been 
heard moving their wings. At last Ray- 
mond summoned strength to ask, “ From 
whom does this letter come ? ” 

“ From Prince Sylvio Natti, who has 
formed a project of eloping with me 
to-night;” replied she, lowering her 
eyes, but speaking without hesitation. 

“And you approved this project?” 
asked he, resting his elbows on the table, 
and his chin in his hands. 

“ You must see,” replied she excitedly, 
“ that this note is in answer to a ref usal.” 

“Ah! begging your pardon,” said he, 
“ I cannot regard the refusal as serious. 
Prince Natti boasts of having been en- 
couraged by you; you probably have 
made your arrangements through writ- 
ing.” 

“ I have never written,” she answered 


with a shrug of the shoulders ; then, after 
a short pause, she raised her eyes, and 
said, “ I may as well confess to you, 
monsieur, that for four and twenty hours 
I was positively determined to run the 
risk of the elopement.” 

His whole frame shook with violent 
emotion, red lights danced before his eyes, 
“ You confess, then, at last, that you love 
this haunter of gaming-houses,” faltered 
he. 

“ What shall I say to you?” answered 
she. “ The excitement of a romantic ad- 
venture pleased one of my two souls. 
Since then I have reflected, and I have 
changed my mind. I am not very well 
versed in the Holy Scriptures ; but I be- 
lieve that I have read there a passage 
something like this : ‘ There is more joy 

in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, 
than over ninety and nine just persons 
who need no repentance. ’ You ought to 
feel a like joy over me.” 

He remained silent, but she recovered 
all her self-possession. “ And so, mon- 
sieur, you really do not advise me to let 
Prince Natti elope with me?” she asked. 
‘ ‘ But he is nevertheless a very handsome 
fellow, and I believe myself almost sure 
of his heart.” 

Raymond felt as if some irresistible 
force had lifted him from his chair. 
Standing erect, with contracted forehead, 
with set teeth, he could almost have 
sprung at Miss Rovel, almost have tram- 
pled her beneath his feet. She gazed at 
him with an intrepid eye. “ To whom 
are you speaking ? ” asked he in a voice 
of thunder. 

“ To my guardian,” replied she, with- 
out the least emotion. “ Are you willing 
to argue the case with me a little ? I al- 
ways like to have people give me reasons. 
If I were to go away from here, and run 
over the world with Prince Natti, who 
would have the right to complain of me ? ” 

“Some one,” replied he, “who is 
guilty of the unworthy weakness of lov- 
ing you. — You understand that I refer to 
my sister. Such a proceeding on your 
part would cause her to die of sorrow.” 

“ I am aware that Mile. Ferray loves 
me very dearly,” returned Meg; “but 
what I desire to know is, are your reasons 
personal ? ” 

“ Oh ! as for me, ” replied he in a gla- 
cial tone, “ as for me, Miss Rovel, I am 
answerable for you to your mother. If 
you will be so obliging as to wait patiently 
a few days more, I will write to her to 
come for you, after which I shall leave 
you free to do whatever you please. ” 

“ Very well, ” said she, “I know yoin* 
reasons now, and they appear good and 
conclusive to me. ” 

She was for some instants silent. She 
plunged one of her nails into a groove of 
the table, and with her other liand she 


80 


MISS HOVEL. 


toyed with a curl of her hair. Suddenly 
a change caine over her face, her glance 
grew soft and humid, then in®lining to- 
ward Raymond, she said, “ Good heav- 
ens, monsieur, how hasty you are! I 
swear to you by all that you hold most 
sacred, and, if you love any thing, I swear 
to you by that you love most in the worlds 
that Prince Natti is a fool, that my heart 
does not at all belong to .him, that he 
will elope with me neither to-night, nor 
the night after, nor ever ; and I swear to 
you also, that I shall religiously keep the 
promise I have made to Mile. Ferray, that 
during your absence I will cause her 
neither an ennui, a chagrin, nor an uneasi- 
ness ; in a word, that you can journey in 
peace, with the certainty that she suffices 
as a guard for me. ” And, extending her 
hand to him across the table, she added 
smiling, “ Do you believe me ? ” 

There was in this smile so much sin- 
cerity, so much emotion, and so much 
heart, that Raymond’s anger suddenly 
subsided like a great tempest lulled by a 
small rain ; and his suspicions vanished. 
He took the hand she offered him, and 
said, “I believe you.” 

“In my turn,” pursued she, “I im- 
plore you, monsieur, to make an agree- 
ment with me. Give me the assurance 
that you will not seek a quarrel with 
Prince Natti, that you will appear to 
ignore his existence and his projects, 
that you will allow this puppy to pass the 
night in the open air.” 

He promised by a nod of the head. 
“ And besides,” said she, “ if you fear 
lest he may repeat his attempts, what 
hinders your adjourning your depart- 
ure?” 

“That is not necessary,” replied he. 
“ I know. Miss Rovel, that it is not in the 
power of any one to control your inclina- 
tions ; and, now that I have your promise, 
I should despise myself if I doubted you. 
Besides, I have dismissed Pamela ; from 
to-morrow night, my gardener, who is a 
man to be confided in, will occupy her 
chamber, and the house will be guarded 
as by myself.” 

With these words, he rose, approached 
her, and gazed into her eyes ; then in an 
uncertain voice he began, “ Nothing 
more remains to me. Miss Rovel, but to 
bid you adieu, and to wish ” — 

“Oh, no!” said she, “not this even- 
ing. It has been arranged between Mile. 
Ferray and myself, that, since you are 
not to leave until late in the morning, 
we will all three breakfast together at 
nine o’clock. Good night, monsieur, and 
be pleased to remember our mutual 
agreement.” 

She left him, and ran to her chamber. 
Mile. Ferray, absorbed in her chimera, 
awaited her on the stairway. “God be 
praised, my little girl, he has at last 


spoken!” said she. “ He has explained 
himself: all is concluded, arranged.” 

“ x\las. Miss Agatha ! ” replied Meg ; “ it 
is decidedly the House of Lords which 
rules; nothing is granted to the poor 
Commons.” 

Mile. Ferray’s arms fell. “ What has 
he said to you, then?” asked she. 

“ That, if I promise to be very good, he 
will bring me from Paris some barley- 
sugar, some apple-sugar, and all sorts of 
sweetmeats, sugared over like his whole 
person, and tlie sweet sirup of his 
speech.” 

“You are forever jesting,” said Mile. 
Ferray with a sigh. “And yet it may be 
that your gayety diverts us from serious 
things.” 

“ It at least keeps me from being sad : 
I am like those farmers who kindle bon- 
fires in their fields to drive away the 
frosts.” 

“ And you have not even induced him 
to delay his departure? ” 

Meg gently pinched Mile. Ferray’s 
chin, as she said to her, “ You i^retend 
that I am romantic. You are far more 
so than I, mademoiselle ; but, to create a 
romance, a beginning alone does not 
suffice ; it must also have an end. Try 
between now and to-morrow to invent 
one for yours.” 

Having said this, she flew into her 
chamber. Raymond, a little after, en- 
tered his. In order to testify his confi- 
dence in Miss Rovel, he abstained from 
going his habitual rounds at eleven 
o’clock. As he threw himself upon his 
bed, he experienced some satisfaction 
in imagining handsome Sylvio dancing 
attendance in his carriage. And yet 
the night did not wear away without 
his awakening ten times at least, with a 
start, thinking he heard some noise, — 
now the echo of a step which made the 
staircase creak; now the murmur of a 
voice, or the distant rumbling of a car- 
riage. He sat upright in his bed, bent 
his ear ; every time, he convinced himself 
that all came from the vocal efforts of 
a rusty weathercock, with which the 
wind was playing all sorts of antics for 
its own amusement. 

Morning having arrived, when he had 
finished his toilet, he remained for a long 
time immovable, trying to collect all his 
strength for the great and decisive battle 
in which he was about to engage. He 
passed all his forces in review ; they were 
under arms, arranged in good order, with 
fixed bayonets, and their discipline pre- 
saged victory to him. A little before 
nine, he descended to the dining-room 
with a firm tread ; he was pale, but calm. 
His sister immediately joined him. 

The breakfast-bell rang; Miss Rovel 
did not appear. “ She must still be sleep- 
ing,” said Mile. Ferray, and she at once 


MISS ROVEL. 


81 


-went up to call her. An instant after, 
Raymond heard a loud cry. He rushed 
up the stairs four steps at a time. Meg’s 
room was empty; a lamp had burned 
itself out on the mantle, and the bed had 
not been disturbed. Raymond burst out 
laughing, and exclaimed, “ There is what 
a woman’s promise is worth I ” Then he 
ran like a madman into Pamela’s cham- 
ber ; it was also empty. 

He summoned the gardener. This man 
knew nothing concerning Miss Rovel; 
but he reported, that last night when he 
went to close the court-yard gate, the 
negress had passed out before him, ex- 
claiming as she went, that she did not 
wish to remain an hour longer in a house 
from which she had been dismissed, that 
she would send the next day for her 
clothes. Meantime, Mile. Ferray learned 
from her chambermaid, that, upon enter- 
ing the parlor that morning, she had 
been surprised to find a window open, 
and a shutter half drawn back. She 
called her brother to communicate to him 
this new piece of information. He had 
already gone, having in his heart only 
one desire, and in his head only one 
thought, — possessed body and soul by a 
blind and irresistible need of killing 
somebody. 

XIII. 

Before repairing to the police with a 
description of the two fugitives, and claim- 
ing aid in his search, Raymond concluded 
to visit the Hotel des Bergues, thinking 
that he might gain there some valuable in- 
formation. His own experience at this con- 
juncture taught him that the certainty of 
a misfortune produces a sort of relief. 
He was almost calm as he presented 
himself at the hotel, where he had scarce 
pronounced the name of Prince Natti, ere 
the doorkeeper replied, “ Second stoiy, 
just opposite the staircase. The prince 
is in.” 

“Are you sure of it?” returned Ray- 
mond, who could scarce dissemble his ex- 
treme surprise; “have the kindness to 
prove to me that you are not mistaken. ” 

The doorkeeper came out from his 
lodge, applied, by turns, his mouth and 
his ear to the end of an acoustic tube, 
and returned saying, “The prince is en- 
gaged, he is breakfasting in his room : he 
cannot receive.” 

“ I have most important tidings to an- 
nounce to him, ” answered Raymond, “I 
am certain of being received.” 

And, nimbly darting up the staircase, 
in twenty bounds he reached the second 
story, where he stumbled against one of 
the waiters, who said to him, “ Is this 
the gentleman who desires to see Prince 
Natti ? He denies himself to visitors.” 

Raymond seized the waiter by the 


shoulders, exclaiming, “Gk), carry the 
prince my card.” An instant after, he 
heard a beautifully modulated voice say 
with an Italian accent, “Assuredly, let 
him enter.” 

He entered. The prince was alone, ab- 
solutely alone, and was finishing his 
breakfast. Raymond noticed that the 
table was set with only one cover. Either 
from an inborn philosophy, or as the re- 
sult of an excellent digestion, handsome 
Sylvio was in that happy frame of mind 
which enables one to bear lightly the 
weight of a burdened conscience, and to 
despise fortuitous events. And so, with- 
out constraint, he received a visit which 
promised to be any thing but agreeable. 
He greeted Raymond with a pleasant 
face, and handed him a chair with much 
civility. 

“Prince, need I explain to you the mo- 
tive of my visit?” asked Raymond, as he 
sat down. 

“I might perhaps divine it without 
much trouble,” replied he with great ur- 
banity; “but nevertheless I am curious 
to hear your explanation.” 

“Very well, monsieur, I have come to 
demand satisfaction from you.” 

“You know all then?” interrupted 
Prince Natti. 

“I have Iviiown all since last evening. 
Miss Rovel did me the favor to show 
me your letter. ” 

Handsome Sylvio allowed an exclama- 
tion of anger to escape him ; then, having 
apparently said to himself that it was the 
part of a wise man to be prepared for all 
and resigned to all, he resumed, “If 
you are going to reproach me, I shall 
make haste to acknowledge that I have 
belmved like a villain or a fool, — the word 
you prefer will be the one that suits me, — 
and yet I may remark to you that the in- 
tention has never been considered as the 
deed. If you propose to demand a meet- 
ing with me at some future day, I shall 
readily accept your challenge, for I am 
very much disgusted with my villany or 
with my foolishness. But, if you simply 
desire to give yourself the satisfaction of 
making sport of me on account of my dis- 
comfiture, good heavens ! although I am 
not blest with a long-suffering disposition, 
I will patiently submit to the lot I have 
merited, and perhaps it will all end in my 
laughing heartily with you.” 

Raymond, lost in astonishment, asked 
himself what this strange language 
meant, and if Prince Xatti waS not the 
most consummate of comedians, in such 
good faith did he appear to speak. Xot 
knowing at what to grasp. Miss Rovel’ s 
guardian resolved to advance step by step, 
with plummet in hand. “Is it possible, 
prince, ” resumed he in a crafty tone, 
“ that such a man as you has to complain 
of destiny? Can it really be that he has 


82 


MISS ROVEL. 


encountered resistance upon which he 
did not reckon?” 

“And upon which,” interrupted Syl- 
vio, “he had the right not to reckon. 
Miss Rovel’s conduct, ” continued he, 
“ absolves me from all reticence, and 
places me at my ease in telling you that a 
few days ago she gave every possible en- 
couragement to my stupid adventure. 
All was decided, concerted between us: 
it is not my habit to elope with young 
women against their will. A sudden 
scruple occurred to her ; I do not believe 
in her scruples. Your ward, monsieur, 
is a Satanic coquette : you will oblige me 
by telling her so from me.” 

These last words were uttered in a tone 
of such bitter resentment as to render it 
no longer allowable to believe that hand- 
some Sylvio was playing a comedy. Ray- 
mond was fully convinced that not only 
had victory failed Prince Natti at the last, 
but that his adventure had foundered at 
the very outset, that Miss Rovel had 
changed her mind; that the elopement 
had not taken place. What had really 
happened ? He was dying of a desire to 
know. Concealing the agitation which 
devoured him, he said with a jocose air, 
“I promise to transmit faithfully your 
message; but your complaints against 
my ward, are they as serious as you are 
pleased to say ? Her scruples are those of 
her age, and may soon be overcome. Has 
she not given you hope for the future ? 
Has she not let you dimly see that she 
loves you, and that sooner or later her 
conscience will be more easy to manage ?” 

Sylvio contracted his black eyebrows. 
“ I have given you permission to make 
sport of me, monsieur,” he said; “but 
it seems to me that you abuse it.” 

“Not at all; you misapprehend my 
sentiments. I am full of sympathy for 
your misf ortune| as sensible of it as it is 
possible for a man to be who has never 
experienced the cruelty of woman. ^ 

The prince resumed his good humor. 
“In truth,” said he, “it is impossible 
for me to be angry, my misadventure 
has so jovial a side. Monsieur, in pre- 
senting my compliments to Miss Rovel, 
please say to her that you found me re- 
signed to my disgrace ; perhaps I should 
have been capable of marrying her, and 
that is a misfortune which would have 
been most deeply to be deplored. Tell 
her, that, if I am still afflicted with any 
regret, I know the means of cure. They 
inform me that there is in Saxony, not 
very far from here, a noted gaming- 
house; there I shall go to-morrow, and 
there I expect to find the fullest conso- 
lation. Hence I conclude that I am 
satisfied, that you are satisfied also, and 
that we have nothing more to say to one 
another.” 

He spoke these words, and bowed to Ray- 


mond, as if to politely request him to take 
his leave; but Raymond did not return 
the salutation. For two minutes he had 
kept his eyes fixed upon the glass above 
the mantle, in which something of inter- 
est was going on. There was, at the 
farther end of the room, a wardrobe con- 
cealed by tapestry hangings. This cur- 
tain was reflected in the glass, and at 
two different times Raymond had be- 
lieved he saw it move lightly. 

“Prince, before I leave, one word 
more, if you please ! What have you so 
carefully hidden behind that tapestry? ” 

By an instinctive movement, Prince 
Natti ran to place himself between the 
wardrobe and Raymond. “ You are too 
curious,” answered he haughtily: “ what 
does it matter to you ? ” 

Raymond felt every drop of his blood 
rush to his heart. He could no longer 
doubt that this Neapolitan Lovelace had 
sought to deceive him by the boldest 
effrontery: Meg was there behind the 
curtain, but a few steps from him. He 
felt that he should die of shame, if, in 
the presence of this disloyal creature he 
was about to see, his anger were to be- 
tray his love. Raising his voice so that 
it reached the farthest corner of the 
room, he said with frigid irony, “ Mon- 
sieur, draw aside the curtain. I shall be 
happy to present my respects to the vir- 
tuous and charming person with whom 
you eloped last night.” 

“Are you a sorcerer, then? ” exclaimed 
Sylvio in a tone half mild, half bitter. 

“ Confess,” pursued Raymond, “ that 
you have been imposing upon me, that 
your designs have not met with the least 
resistance, that you are the most happy 
and fortunate of men, that no foolish 
scruple of conscience has marred your 
felicity.” 

“ I confess,” replied Sylvio, “ that your 
sarcasms violently ' agitate my nerves, 
and that I am on the point of being 
angry.” 

His fine humor still prevailed over his 
resentment ; and he added with a smile, 
“ To speak frankly and plainly with you, 
I am offered freely a devotion and a self- 
sacrifice I do not feel inclined to accept.” 

“ Prince, draw aside the curtain now,” 
repeated Raymond: “I would like to 
see the visage that innocent creature you 
carried off last night shows in listening 
to you.” 

“As a preliminary, you must hear the 
authentic story of my good fortune,” re- 
sumed Sylvio: “it is the best method 
for people to give themselves lashes; 
they are then sure to be laid on more as 
they should be. After two hours of 
niortal waiting, I was furious, and 
pierced through with cold. I gave orders 
to my coachman to go back to the city. 
At the same instant, I believed I heard a 


MISS ROVEL. 33 


voice, and the precipitous landing of 
some one on the ground. My heart 
hounded ; I opened the carriage-door, I 
darted out; I pressed lovingly in my 
arms the idol of my soul, who had come 
to console me for the long delay; but 
behold a new illustration of the caprices 
of the human heart! The carriage-lan- 
tern having thrown a pale ray upon her 
face, there came to me a bitter repent- 
ance; I felt my transports subside, my 
love suddenly changed into a sacred re- 
spect ; but all this did not prevent this 
innocent creature, as you call her, install- 
ing herself upon the cushion at my side, 
and saying to me, ‘ I am here, and here 
I shall remain 1 ’ In place of a heart of 
iron, I give you one, monsieur, which has 
warm blood and ardent sentiments.” 

“ And you despise her enough to relate 
this story before her?” cried Ray- 
mond. 

“ Why should I despise her?” replied 
he ill well-feigned astonishment. “Your 
vocabulary is a singular one: what is 
there of contempt in all this?” 

Raymond, as his sole response, clinched 
his fists, and advanced a step toward the 
wardrobe. The prince barred his pas- 
sage. “Promise me,” said he, “that 
you will not lift your hand against her. 
You are giving her a horrible fright. 
She pretends that you would be capable 
of killing her.” 

“ I kill her? ” responded Raymond, 
with a contemptuous sneer. “You de- 
ceive yourself. Lady Rovel has confided 
her to my care; I owe Lady Rovel an 
account of the deposit, and there will be 
nothing more. Prince, must I use force 
with you, or do you consent to give her 
up to me?” he added with an imperious 
air. 

“ All right 1 you ask me to give her up 
you?” 

“ I command it.” 

“And you have only to say the word, 
monsieur ! God bless you and reward you ! 
I will obey you with all my heart, and this 
very instant, and ten times for one com- 
mand. I pray you to believe me that 
this ingenuous beauty is here in spite of 
me, and that the continence of Scipio 
is as nothing compared to mine. Ask 
her rather, and let her tell you if it is 
not true that I ardently implored her to 
return to The Hermitage ; that she pro- 
tested against it, declaring her intention 
never to leave me, but to follow me to 
the end of the world ; that, seized with 
terror, I leaped out at the carriage-door, 
and sought safety in breathless flight; 
but scarce had I arrived here, scarce did 
I believe myself beyond the reach of 
those dangerous charms, when she rose 
before me like a phantom. How had she 
entered ? By the window, by the chim- 
ney, through the keyhole? I know 


nothing about it ; sylphides recognize no 
obstacles.” 

And pirouetting upon his heels, he 
cried, “ Goddess of pity, generous con- 
soler, come out from your retreat : I am 
your surety that this ferocious moralist 
who re-claims you shall not harm a hair 
of your head.” 

In despite of this re-assuring promise, 
the deity remained crouching in her cor- 
ner ; and, the better to shield herself from 
obtrusive glances, drawing the curtain 
toward her, she tried to envelop herself 
in it. Unhappily, her action was so im- 
petuous, that the rod gave way, the 
tapestry glided to the floor, and the as- 
tonished eyes of Raymond saw emerge, 
from out the disordered hangings, a soot- 
colored forehead, a flat nose, and the 
entire visage of this most romantic of 
negresses. 

He stood there with staring eyes and 
open mouth, as if petrified ; after which 
he was seized with an attack of Homeric 
hilarity, and with bursts of nervous 
laughter which he could not control. He 
gazed now at the prince, now at Pamela ; 
he burned with a desire to embrace both. 

“ Now for once, let me say to you that 
your merriment surpasses all bounds,” 
remarked Sylvio, brushing back his mus- 
tache: “my ears are beginning to be 
chafed. Do me the favor to take away, 
as quickiy as possible, this blackamoor 
whose reputation is so dear to you.” 

“All things considered,” answered Ray- 
mond, resuming his serious air, “I could 
not have the conscience to deprive you 
of her. In a case similar to yours, this 
blackamoor became the consoler of M. de 
Boisgenet, whose sage philosophy, it seems 
to me, is worthy to be proposed as an 
example. However, if you fear lest your 
Florence friends may make themselves 
merry at your expense, you may count 
upon my absolute discretion.” 

With these words, before Sylvio could 
take a step to prevent it, he gained the 
door, opened it precipitately, and darted 
to the staircase, which he descended at 
his utmost speed. He took a cab at the 
quay, and set out for The Hermitage, 
urging the driver to spur on his steeds. 
Afterliaving been so i^uddenly unhorsed, 
his mind was now restored to the saddle : 
he was happy, jovial, sure that things 
would turn out as he wished. He chided 
his imagination, reproaching it for his 
ridiculous blunder, for his affright, and 
his mental alienation; he racked^ his 
brain for excuses. When the mind is in 
this elevated mood, it finds explanations 
for every thing, even for a bed that is not 
disturbed, even for a blind that was 
closed, but has been opened, no one 
knows how. 

Raymond held it for decided, decreed, 
that the first person he should nieet at 


84 


MISS ROVEL. 


The Hermitage would be Meg ; that she 
had only sought to amuse herself by 
frightening liiin ; that she had wished to 
put his confidence to the proof. He 
promised himself to leave her in igno- 
rance of the alarm he had just experi- 
enced, and to approach her with an un- 
ruftled forehead ; he flattered himself 
that he should succeed, for he Avas proud 
of the mastery he had gained over him- 
self. 

He had left the Hotel des Bergues, not 
only without having strangled any one, 
but even Avithout having betrayed his 
anguish, or having let fall a word that 
could compromise his Avard. The satis- 
faction Avith Avhich his OAvn conduct in- 
spired him was blent Avith the certainty 
that Miss Rovel did not love Prince Natti. 
He Avas disposed to become reconciled to 
the universe, to confess that there had 
been a misunderstanding at the bottom 
of his long dispute with life. 

He Avas not more than ten minutes’ 
drive from The Hermitage, Avhen he saAv 
hastening toAvard him a messenger who 
had just been sent to meet him. He 
held tAAm letters in his hand. Raymond 
took them from him, and he Avas- seized 
Avith a cold perspiration as he read the 
first. It Avas from his sister, and was 
written Avith a trembling hand. Mile. 
Ferray announced to him in broken peri- 
ods, that Miss Rovel had not yet been 
found, that there was reason to believe 
she had made her escape in the early 
hours of the night, that she had probably 
left by one of the parlor Avindows, that 
she had taken her path across the or- 
chard. They had just discovered, in the 
forest, a veil clinging to the brambles, 
and a plank over the stream, Avhich must 
have served as a bridge for the fugitives. 
A farmer of the neighborhood affirmed, 
that, returning to the city betAveen eleven 
o’clock and midnight, he had perceived a 
young man and tAvo horses, lying at am- 
bush near a clump of trees. 

After having communicated these sor- 
rowful tidings to her brother. Mile. Fer- 
ray exhorted him not to be too much 
alarmed. “We are having a bad dream,” 
she Avrote; “but the aAvakening must 
soon come, and let us hope that all will 
be explained.” She had opened her 
letter to add a postscript. It stated that 
a messenger had just brought a letter; 
that she had allowed herself to break the 
seal, and read it ; and she now hastened 
to send it to him. Here he would find 
a solution of the enigma, and she con- 
jured him to form no resolution until he 
had first conferred Avith her. 

The note enclosed within the letter 
contained these Avords: “Monsieur, ap- 
pearances are against me ; but, after what 
has passed betAveen us, I haA^e done only 
what I had the right to do. My con- 


science is tranquil, for my intentions are 
irreproachable. But I would not have 
you think I have fled from you. I am 
at Thonon : I shall remain tAventy-four 
hours; and, if it is your pleasure to come 
and join me here, I shall hasten to give 
you all the explanations you can desire. 
Youi’ obedient servant, Gordon.” 

This letter and this signature had ui)on 
Raymond the effect red produces upon a 
bull. Stunned Avith astonishment and 
rage, he remained nailed to the spot, a 
mist before his eyes, demanding Avhere he 
Avas, what had happened, Avhat he Avas 
doing in the midst of the higliAvay, Avhy 
he held this paper in his hand. 

He Anally recovered the thread of his 
ideas: it seemed proven to him, that he 
Avas Raymond Ferray, that his Avard had 
run away from him, that he was losing 
time while a most urgent matter de- 
manded his attention ; this Avas to rejoin 
Mr. Gordon at Thonon, and politely ex- 
plain to that young gentleman that he 
wished to fight Avith him for life or death. 

He perceived also, that tAvo steps from 
him there Avas an immovable carriage, to 
Avhich tAvo horses Avere attached, and a 
coachman who Avas attentively observing 
him, not knoAving what to make of him. 
Calling out to the coachman in an abrupt 
tone, he engaged him not to unharness 
the horses, and to take him to Thonon in 
three hours. He then ordered the mes- 
senger to return to his sister, and inform 
her that he should not be at The Hermit- 
age until evening. Having said this, he 
re-entered his cab ; the driver Avas already 
brandishing his Avhip, when another car- 
riage arrived in hot haste from Geneva. 
It stopped suddenly, and Raymond found 
himself in the presence of Lady Rovel 
and the Marquis de Boisgenet. 

Their quarrel had been of short dura- 
tion. After having withdrawn proudly 
into his tent, M. de Boisgenet had re- 
gretted his hasty resentment. His anger 
being appeased, his appetite had returned. 
He was so allured by Meg that he forgot 
Mirette, and all the indignities heaped 
upon him by her mistress. He thought 
of Meg as of the most delicious of dain- 
ties; and his self-love, Avounded to the 
quick, had sworn that he Avould not rid 
himself of this fantasy. He not only 
valued her as a morsel fit for a king, but 
as a superb business investment. He 
believed he read in the stars, that Lady 
Rovel was destined to a premature end, 
that time would not be allotted her to 
squander her fortune ; that Avhether that 
approaching catastrophe came to her at 
the depths of some glacier, or through 
one of those innumerable accidents Avhicli 
accompany the research for the ideal 
man, she would be so ravished by the 
tender devotion of her son-in-law, as to 
leave him all. 


MISS roVel. 85 


In short, M. de Boisgenet had made 
his apologies, and had multiplied his ne- 
gotiations for being restored to favor. 
He had persevered ; and, after many una- 
vailing attempts, he had succeeded in 
taking Lady Kovel at her full moon, and 
had obtained pity. When their own in- 
terests are at stake, fools become intelli- 
gent. Lady Kovel having secretly con- 
lided to him a fact in regard to which she 
had been silent to all the world beside, 
that Meg had returned to her guardian, 
the marquis had made it his study to per- 
suade her by artful and persistent insinua- 
tions, that M. Ferray was secretly in love 
with his ward, that she had the same 
sentiment for him, that sending Meg 
back to The Hermitage had been only to 
hurl her into the jaws of the wolf. His 
continual harping upon this string had 
led Lady Kovel to take the alarm. Mecca 
still lay heavily upon her heart; and, una- 
ble to tolerate the idea that any one else 
should be allowed to enjoy it, she had 
departed at once for G-eneva. She was 
going to The Hermitage with the laudable 
intention of reclaiming her daughter, 
and bringing her within four and twenty 
hours to Florence. 

She had no sooner perceived Kaymond, 
than, stepping down from her carriage, 
she hastened toward him with lightnings 
in her eyes ; and, motioning to M. de Bois- 
genet to join them, she drew him aside, 
crying, “ Monsieur, you have basely de- 
ceived me!” 

“ In what way, madame ? ” 

“You have sworn to me that you were 
perfectly indifferent to my daughter.” 

“It is the exact truth, and i am even 
more so to-day than I was yesterday.” 

“ I beg your pardon, but it is quite 
otherwise : you are in love with her. M. 
de Boisgenet says you are.” 

“ M. de Boisgenet is the most penetrat- 
ing of diviners. I love your daughter as 
much as I esteem her.” 

“And you have succeeded in making 
her love you, the giddy thing! M. de 
Boisgenet affirms that also.” 

“The giddy thing thinks so much of 
me that she ran away from me last 
night.” 

Lady Kovel started back two paces. 
“ What nonsense is that you are saying ?” 
cried she. 

“I am in despair, madame, that my 
nonsense is nevertheless the truth ; and I 
have the honor to inform you that I am 
just setting out in pursuit of your daugh- 
ter, who last night eloped with an ad- 
venturer.” 

“ >Vhat is the name of this insect? ” 

“This insect, madame, is a Mr. Gor- 
don, who has the happiness of being 
known to you: I shall therefore not 
waste my time in drawing his portrait 
for you.” 


“And you have not yet arrested her? ” 
said Lady Kovel in a disdainful tone. 

“ The trouble is, that, until two min- 
utes ago, I was not aware where Mr. 
Gordon had judged proper to direct his 
steps.” 

“"You have known it two minutes, 
and you have not yet told me ! ” 

“ if you would deign to let me speak, 
madame, I should inform you that your 
daughter is at Tlionon.” 

“And would you have the obligingness 
to explain to me where Thonon is ? ” 

“ Upon the borders of Lake Leman, 
some thirty kilometres from Gene- 
va.” 

After a brief silence, she resumed, 
“You are the one most guilty, monsieur. 
When one has a mania, a rage, for mak- 
ing himself a guardian, one should en- 
deavor to acquire the qualifications ne- 
cessary for that .office ; and when one 
demands to take a young girl under his 
care one should give himself the trouble 
to guard her.” 

“It is an honor, madame, which I do 
not remember having sought: in my 
simplicity, I believed that I had assumed 
it under protest.” 

“Is it not you who have prevented 
Meg’s marrying M. de Boisgenet? If 
this marriage had been formed, I should 
have to give myself no further trouble 
about her : it would be the duty of the 
marquis to run after — what do you call 
him ? — after Mr. Gordon.” 

The marquis made a modest inclina- 
tion of the head to testify how much 
this regret touched his heart. 

“Ah! upon that point,” replied Kay- 
mond, “I humbly say my peccam, 
madame. I acknowledge that I was 
wrong in opposing so well-assorted a 
marriage ; as soon as you regain posses- 
sion of your daughter, I would humbly 
supplicate you to give her as quickly as 
possible to M. de Boisgenet. I should 
with both hands applaud so happy a 
denouinenV^ 

This little colloquy had poured a 
bucket of cold water over M. de Boisge- 
net’ s infatuation. His prudence entered 
into a parley with his amorous pen- 
chant, and declared that it had already 
cost him dear, that it was not in his 
power to make greater sacrifices for its 
sake, that all such expenditures must be 
stopped. Apostrophizing Kaymond in 
the sharpest tone, he said, “Monsieur, 
you are very obliging; but, if it is my 
pleasure to get married, I shall marry 
when and as it pleases me.” 

“And, since it is Meg who pleases 
you,” suddenly resumed Lady Kovel, 
“ it will be Meg whom you will be pleased 
to marry.” 

“ I beg your pardon, madame,” replied 
he. “ New facts, new developments, and 


86 


MIS* ROVEL. 


certain events, lead a man of sense to 
consider.” 

“Who forbids your considering? I 
only pray you to remember that you 
have sought, supplicated, begged, for 
the hand of my daughter.” 

“Ah, madame! but I had not foreseen 
Mr. Gordon, and I confess to you that 
Mr. Gordon chills me a little.” 

“ He produces upon me quite the con- 
trary effect,” replied Lady Rovel: “he 
revives my idea of having Meg married, 
y oil have asked her from me : I give her 
to you.” 

“Your kindness overwhelms me, but 
the more I reflect ” — 

“Your reflections are absolutely im- 
pertinent,” interrupted she, “and, like 
the young eagles, you cry out for a very 
little thing. What is all this fuss about ? 
About a mere escapade. In spite of 
appearances, Meg is an innocent girl.” 

“Mercy on us! such innocence is 
rather too pronounced to suit me : it will 
not answer for the future Marchioness 
de Boisgenet.” 

“Marquis, you shall marry her!” cried 
Lady Rovel, looking down at the little 
man from a giddy height; “and then 
there will be no need of your taking pre- 
cautions, or defending your gates from 
any future Gordons.” 

“ God bless them, madame ! But the 
first in date of all the Gordons, he who 
is at Thonon, is not a coming man, that 
I know; he is a frightful reality. The 
arrival of this Gordon being an event 
already past, cannot now be gainsaid: 
and he is a Gordon I do not care to have 
set to my account. I beg your pardon, I 
shall not marry at all.” 

Lady Rovel turned to Raymond. 
“Monsieur,” said she to him, “you are 
the evil genius of my house, and should 
take upon your conscience the refusal of 
M. de Boisgenet. If you are a man of 
courage, you will fight with him, and 
constrain him to marry Meg.” 

“I shall do nothing of the kind,” an- 
swered Raymond. “I consent to go in 
search of your daughter : if I succeed in 
restoring her to you, M. de Boisgenet 
may marry her, or not marry her, just as 
he chooses. The only certain thing is, 
that from to-morrow my memory will 
be free from her remembrance ; and ac- 
cursed be the man who shall allow him- 
self to utter that name in my pres- 
ence!” 

Thereupon he ran to his carriage, 
sprang hastily to his seat, and, ordering 
his coachman to urge on the horses to 
their utmost speed, he set off in pursuit 
of Mr. Gordon, without troubling him- 
self as to whether Lady Rovel followed. 

The route from Geneva to Thonon 
passes through a beautiful region; on 
the one side, it affords a view of the 


Alps, on the other of the most admir- 
able of lakes. We may well believe 
that to-day Raymond Ferray saw neither 
the lake nor the Alps; but he did not 
find the way tedious ; he had enough to 
occupy him. Now he would yet once 
more vow an implacable hatred against 
all women, against their disloyalties, their 
perfidies, their envenomed artifices. He 
would curse those roses whose thorns 
pierce and tear the hand foolish enough 
to prop them up, and, in the midst of his 
imprecations, congratulate himself that 
he was forever healed. He felt that he 
could with impunity evoke the image of 
Meg, that he could recall her beauty 
without peril ; he had submerged himself 
in contempt, that other Styx, whose 
dark and muddy but healthful waters 
render invulnerable the heart that bathes 
in them. 

But, to tell the truth, there were inter- 
vals when he said to himself, that if, one 
evening in a library, he had yielded to 
the seductions of his passion, perhaps a 
soul of eighteen years would have given 
itself to him forever and unreservedly. 
He would not harbor this chimera for a 
moment; he repulsed it with contempt 
and horror; he repeated to himself a 
hundred and a hundred times that Miss 
Rovel was but a compound of duplicity 
and mendacity. He could almost have 
stationed himself at his gates, and cried 
out to passers-bj’-, “ Honest people, guard 
yourselves from loving her; she will 
make your life a hell !” 

He hoped devoutly that she adored Mr. 
Gordon, so that he could throw her into 
despair by killing him, for he had decided 
that he would kill that villanous young 
man; that he could not breathe freely 
until his vengeance was sated ; that, wide 
as the world appeared, it was still too 
narrow to contain a Gordon and a Ray- 
mond Ferray. Apropos, he recalled to 
mind with some complaisance, that one 
day in Arabia, when accosted by some 
Bedouins whose intentions were doubtful, 
desiring to intimidate them, and compel 
them to respect him, he had twice dis- 
charged his revolver at a pebble forty steps 
distant, and had put two balls into the 
white stone. 

When one has in his head so great a 
variety of thoughts, one can go from 
Geneva to Thonon without a moment’s 
ennui ; and, great as was Raymond’s impa- 
tience to arrive at his journey’s end, he 
did not dream of complaining of the 
length of the way. 


XII. 

After Raymond’s departure. Lady 
Rovel, without leaving the spot, made a 
new assault upon M. de Boisgenet. Re- 


MISS ROt-EL. 


.87 


suming her former demonstration where 
she had left it, she proved to him by the 
most conclusive reasoning, that the first 
of his duties was to release her forever 
from the arduous task of taking care of 
her daughter ; she demonstrated to him, 
that he had been sent into the world ex- 
pressly for this purpose, that a man of 
honor holds to fulfilling his destiny, that 
a man of settled principles does not 
change his mind, that a man of sense and 
spirit views things from a lofty stand- 
point, despising details and such a baga- 
telle as an elopement, and that conse- 
quently he ought to marry Meg at once. 
Her stupid guardian must by this time 
have rescued her from Mr. Gordon, and 
it was Lady Rovel’s intention that this 
affair should be arranged before sunset ; 
for this purpose she would have the honor 
of accompanying M. de Boisgenet, that 
very instant, to Thonon. 

The marquis defended himself with 
beak and talons. Lady Rovel flew into a 
passion, and the marquis also became very 
angry. He refused peremptorily to sub- 
mit to her terms; he declared that the 
merchandise was too much damaged to 
find a purchaser; that, for his part, he 
abandoned it; that certain developments 
went beyond his courage, that he should 
not allow himself to be taken for a 
ninny. 

Lady Rovel foreswore the marquis for- 
ever, and ordered her coachman to drive 
at once to Thonon. The latter fearing 
that his horses, a little broken-winded, 
could not hold out for so long a jour- 
ney, rei^resented to her that it would be 
more agreeable to take the route by 
water. Leaving the marquis in the 
lurch, she bade the coachman take her 
back to Geneva ; and, arriving at the quay, 
she saw a steamboat just ready to depart, 
and took passage upon it. 

As the boat left the harbor, Lady Rovel, 
standing upright at the stern, her hand 
upon the railing, her forehead inclined 
toward the water, abandoned herself to 
the current of her mournful thoughts, 
and let her mind drift far away. The 
chagrin which her daughter’s foolish es- 
capade had caused, her soon gave place to 
melancholy reflections upon herself. She 
recalled her past to mind, the long series 
of errors which had accompanied her 
odyssey through the world. She enu- 
merated her illusions, she saw defile be- 
fore her all the men who had deluded her 
by a family i-esemblance to her dreams. 
From so many vain experiences, what 
remained to her? An insupportable 
emptiness, a scorn of that she had loved. 
If the past disheartened her, the future 
made her shudder. She had lost even the 
power of self-deception : a funereal voice 
cried out to her, “ Seek nothing more, for 
there is nothing more ” 


She gazed at the white birds skimming 
the surface of the water where they pur- 
sued some invisible prey ; now they would 
ascend, whirling rapidly through the air, 
now they plunged yet again into the 
eddying waves, and, gliding over them, 
renewed incessantly their pursuits and 
their diversions. 

She listened also to the perpetual mon- 
otone of the waves breaking against the 
shore, now withdrawing with a hollow 
sound, now bearing back their white 
scrolls to the land eternally amused by 
their murmur and their foam. She com- 
pared sadly the indefatigable industry of 
Nature, who repeats herself forever with- 
out weariness, and the sombre destiny of 
a human soul arrived at the age when the 
illusions of life are over ; when it feels at 
the same time its powerlessness to engage 
in any new pursuit, and a mysterious 
horror of being done with all. 

Having indulged for a time in these 
sombre reflections. Lady Rovel began to 
pity herself ; she accused envious fortune 
which had denied her happiness, while 
always renewing the waves and the sea- 
gulls. Lifting her head, she hurled a 
glance of disdain upon the Alps, upon 
their peaks and their silver cupolas. She 
came to the conclusion that Mont Blanc 
was only a mole-hill, the world a dismal 
box where one stifles for lack of air, and 
the sky its cover. 

As she turned around, and let her dis- 
enchanted glance wander off into space, 
she saw, walking up and down the deck, 
a man still young, whom she remembered 
having met somewhere. His pale, ex- 
pressive face was illuminated by large 
brown eyes of a mysterious beauty, and 
which, by reason of much journeying 
through the heavens, held the earth in 
disdain. Turning over the dusty leaves 
of her memory’s register. Lady Rovel 
found there the name of the Wesleyan 
missionary, who last summer had ha- 
rangued her upon the shore of Lake Lu- 
cerne, and whom she had nonplussed with 
a smile. Here he stood before her.! At 
sight of him her heart was moved. Cer- 
tain interviews leave within us deeper 
traces than we are aware of; our soul, 
unknown to ourself, preserves their re- 
membrance: it germinates, it grows there. 
Where only an acorn had fallen, we are 
astonished at finding an oak ; the acorn 
was buried silently in the earth, and that 
which has sprung from it suffices to give 
shadow to a whole life. 

This Wesleyan missionary, whose name 
was Mr. Glover, had passed many years 
in Senegambia: he had evangelized the 
Maiidinguans, and secretly converted 
the sister of the King of Saloum. His 
health had become impaired by excessive 
fatigues, and the influence of a baleful 
climate: he had come to recuperate in 


88 


MISS KOVEL. 


Europe, and proposed to depart ere long 
for Africa. No one needed behold Lady 
Rovel twice in order to recognize her. 
Mr. Glover’s first misadventure counsel- 
ling prudence, he did not approach her. 
Imagine his astonishment at seeing her 
come to him! She motioned to him to 
follow her, and led him into the cabin, 
where they had a long interview. 

There, without preliminaries, she 
poured forth her whole soul into that of 
the missionary. She told him of her 
chagrins, her disillusions, of the profound 
misery of her heart, a monarch trans- 
formed into a mendicant, a queen whose 
purple robes had now become only rags. 
This valiant hunter of consciences, 
always on the alert, always eager for his 
prey trembled with a saintly joy: he 
thanked Heaven that the noble game he 
had once missed now presented itself 
anew to his aim. Not that Mr. Glover, 
following the example of a certain Jansen- 
ist, attached an especial value to the 
conquest of souls lodged in beautiful 
bodies, but the glory of converting a 
sinner who had filled Europe with her 
adventures might well incite his zeal and 
his ambition. 

He had that eloquence which perfect 
sincerity gives; at this conjuncture, he 
surpassed himself. After having fully 
set forth to his penitent the vanity of the 
world, the nothingness of earthly gran- 
deur and pleasure, he insinuated to her 
that the disgust and weariness that were 
consuming her came as a warning from 
Heaven, which reclaimed her heart, and 
alone could fill it. He unfolded to her 
the mysteries of grace, the byways 
through which it enters to rescue perish- 
ing souls, its artifices, its stratagems, its 
coercions, its unfailing persistence, the 
peace and joy it has in store for its elect. 

Lady Rovel was deeply moved, agi- 
tated by the vividness of the pictures 
he drew for her, -by the copiousness of 
his speech and of his heart. He felt that 
she w'as half A'^anquished, that the divine 
shaft had penetrated to the quick, and he 
redoubled his efforts to deepen the im- 
pression. He had too much ingenuous- 
ness to analyze exactly what was passing 
in her soul. If she yielded to the spell 
of his eloquence, she did jiot fail also to 
be moved by his youth, by the humid 
and velvety lustre of his eyes, by that 
peculiar beauty which a devotion sincere 
and yet romantic imprinted on his pale 
face. 

Some passengers came up, and the 
theme of the conversation ^.changed. 
Mr. Glover obligingly responded to the 
various questions Lady Rovel addressed 
to him concerning his foreign life and 
travels. He told her of Senegambia, of 
his fatigues, of his campaigns, of that 
Mandinguan princess whom he flattered 


himself he had won for the gospel, of his 
impatience to return to Africa, and con- 
summate the work he had begun there. 

At these recitals. Lady Rovel’ s imagi- 
nation took fire. The forests of giant 
baobabs, the butter-tree, the immense 
savannas over Avhich wander herds of 
elephants and wild boars, the black sera- 
glios, the negroes dancing to the sound 
of the tambourine, the strange customs, 
the dangers — all these were intermingled 
in her soul with the mysteries of grace, 
Avith the peace of the elect, and the 
felicity of a regenerated conscience. It 
appeared to her that all these dissimilar 
ideas harmonized delightfully, that Sene- 
gambia Avas the one place in the Avorld 
most resembling paradise, and lightning- 
gleams of hope flashed before her eyes. 

It occurred to her to inquire Avhat sort 
of man the King qf Senegambia might 
be, and if there Avas any probability of 
his becoming a Christian. Mr. Glover 
replied that this crabbed despot Avould 
incontinently have four hundred thousand 
of his subjects decapitated if he should 
suspect them of treason to his fetich or to 
Mahomet. The portrait he drew of this 
personage set the seal to Lady Rovel' s 
infatuation. This decapitating African 
despot rose up before her imagination, 
surrounded by a halo, and all the prestige 
of an imposing majesty. She decided 
that the honor of con\'erting him Avas 
reserA'ed for her. That she Avas at last to 
decipher the hitherto undecipherable 
problem of her destiny, that her beauty 
Avould accomplish this miracle, that God 
willed it, that never before had predesti- 
nation been more manifest. Her future 
became all of a sudden radiant Avith the 
most dazzling light, and, like Archimedes 
leaving the bath, she cried out in the 
plenitude of her heart, “J have found 
it!” 

From this moment Lady Hovel’s reso- 
lution to accompany Mr. Glover to Sene- 
gambia Avas fixed and unwavering; this 
was an adventure entii-ely different from 
that ridiculous journey to Mecca, for 
which she had cherished so foolish an 
infatuation. But she dared not at once 
open her mind to the missionary; she 
contented herself with thanking him for 
all the good he had done her; she de- 
clared that she confided to him the care 
of her soul, that she did not intend to 
leave him again until his departure. He 
assured her that he should be more proud 
and more satisfiecl, to have led Lady 
Rovel to God, than eA’en a Mandinguan 
princess ; and assuredly he did not tell a 
falsehood. 

The hours lent to this all-absorbing 
conversation had flown so SAviftly, that 
the boat landed at Thonon without Lady 
Rovel’ s perceiving it.. She recovered from 
her pre-occupation only upon arriving 


MISS ROVEL. 


89 


near Evian, where Mr. Glover proposed 
to tarry for a while at a water-cure. 
Here it all at once occurred to her that 
Mr. Gordon had eloped with her daugh- 
ter. Wliile leaving the boat, she re- 
counted her maternal grievances to her 
new spiritual guide, and implored him to 
kindly assist her with his discretion, 
pledging herself to respect his counsels 
as oracles. He entered into her troubles 
with a lively sympathy, and talked to her 
of them like a man of sense and heart. 
He at the same time offered her all the 
assistance in his power, and they con- 
cluded to hire a carriage, and depart for 
Thonon as soon as possible. 

Meantime, Raymond had arrived at 
his journey’s end. He alighted at the 
principal hotel of the place, and inquired 
for Mr. Gordon. The innkeeper, a jovial 
and loquacious man, answered, that he 
probably referred to a nice young English- 
man, who had appeared at his house 
about midnight, accompanied by a little 
Englishwoman, pretty as the loves and 
graces ; he added, that this newly-wedded 
pair were on a bridal tour, and seemed to 
love each other like two turtle-doves. 
Late in the morning the yoqng bride ha^ 
gone out to call upon some friends in the 
neighborhood, and the young husband, 
having tenderly embraced her at *parting, 
had gone outside the town to a garden 
belonging to the hotel, where there was a 
shooting-gallery. He had locked himself 
in there, and in the course of two hours 
he must have massacred a host of puppets. 
Raymond had brought from Italy a favor- 
able opinion of Mr. Gordon’s intelligence, 
and he was confirmed in his judgment 
upon learning that this quick-sighted 
islander was just now making the best 
possible use of his time, in steadying his 
hand. 

He begged the innkeeper to take his 
card, that very instant, to Mr. Gordon. 
In ten minutes’ time, the man returned 
to announce to M. Ferray that he was 
expected, and to show him the way. He 
soon reached the entrance of a garden 
enclosed by high walls. He knocked at 
the gate which was bolted, but immedi- 
ately opened by the cool, phlegmatic 
young fellow he had seen at the Char- 
treuse d’Ema. Mr. Gordon received M. 
Ferray very civilly; but his appearance 
and his manners announced that self- 
possession which keeps a furious man at 
a distance. Although Raymond had been 
informed by the landlord, that the young 
stranger lady had left Thonon, his first 
anxiety was to ferret out with his glance 
every corner of the garden. 

“ Are you seeking Miss Rovel ? ” asked 
Mr. Gordon with a half smile. “How 
could you suppose that she was here ? I 
am not so simple as you think; I had 


sense enough to put her in a safe place. 
I was expecting you, monsieur,” he 
added: “I was sure that you would be 
curious to hear the explanations I had 
promised,” 

“You are greatly mistaken, sir,” an- 
swered Raymond : “ I care precious little 
about them.” 

“ Then you have come with the design 
of recovering Miss Rovel, and in the hope 
of taking her from me? ” 

“Still less; keep her, I have not the 
least objection to that. Why do you give 
yourself the air of ignoring my inten- 
tions? You have divined them; the ex- 
ercise you are giving yourself in this 
garden attests that.” 

“It is well to be prepared for all,” re- 
plied Mr. Gordon in a calm, positive 
tone; “but one never need be in haste. 
For my part, I have always believed in 
knowing exactly what I do. And so, 
monsieur, it is with Miss Rovel’ s guard- 
ian that I have to deal at this moment ? ” 

His imperturbable calmness greatly 
aggravated Raymond’s impatience. “A 
truce to talking ! ” cried he, “ The place, 
the day, the hour, — decide upon all, as 
suits your own convenience ; I could not, 
I think, be more accommodating.” 

“You would be still more obliging, if 
you would grant me your attention for a 
few moments. Since you present your- 
self here in the character of guardian 
to Miss Rovel, it seems to me, that, in- 
stead of killing each other, we had best 
come to a mutual understanding. I have 
said to you, and I repeat it, that my in- 
tentions are irreproachable. I eloped 
with Miss Rovel because I was convinced 
that I had no other means of obtaining 
her. She yielded to my project; and, in 
short, she consents to our marriage.” 

“All this,” interrupted Raymond, “in- 
terests me very little. You can make 
your explanations to Lady Rovel, who 
will be here directly.” 

“Is that really so?” replied Mr. Gor- 
don ; and for the first time his face be- 
trayed some emotion. “How happens it 
that Lady Rovel ” — 

“You can ask her yourself,” inter- 
posed Raymond; “and you can state 
your case to her. She surely will not re- 
fuse you the prize due to your exploit, 
the glorious recompense your distin- 
guished valor has merited. This is^ no 
affair of mine. At Florence, you allowed 
yourself some badinage on my account, 
which I considered insulting; last night 
you aggravated the insult by carrying 
off from my house a young girl for whom 
I was responsible. It is for this I de- 
mand satisfaction of you, and this is the 
sole cause of my visit.” 

Mr. Gordon gazed at him for an in- 
stant in silence ; then he exclaimed, “ Ah, 
well ! it shall be as you desire. You are 


90 


MISS KOVEL. 


mad; but madness is contagious, and I 
feel that yours possesses me. You wish 
to fight : I also wish it. When ? This 
very "day. Where? Here in this gar- 
den. dur witnesses ? We can do with- 
out any. Our weapons? The first pistols 
that come to hand, — these, for example, 
which I have not yet tried.” 

He ran to the arm-rack, took from it a 
pair of pistols, and set about loading 
them. “ This garden,” said he, “ is a 
well-chosen place. If a mishap should 
occur to one of us, everybody knows that 
accidents are likely to happen to awk- 
ward shooters, and justice will perhaps 
lie content with this explanation. But I 
demand, that, in order to pay due regard 
to all the probabilities, we go, you and I, 
and place ourselves, each in his turn, be- 
fore this target, until one of us with- 
draws from the contest. Do you accept 
my conditions?” asked he, turning to 
Kaymond, who was gazing at him with a 
bewildered air, and seemed to be asking 
himself if his adversary was not in jest. 

Mr. Gordon never jested ; and Ray- 
mond at last said to him, “ Your ideas 
are very odd, sir, and, what is yet more 
singular, they are pleasing to me.” 

“ I am enchanted to have at last pro- 
posed something which pleases you,” re- 
turned Mr. Gordon. “It is a happiness 
I did not enjoy at the Chartreuse d’Ema. 
It remains to decide who shall have the 
first shot; I desire that it may be you.” 

Raymond having positively refused 
this favor, they drew lots ; and the first 
shot fell to Mr, Gordon. 

“Let us draw lots again, or adjourn 
our contest,” said the young English- 
man. “ I am not angry: it would be im- 
possible for me to fire upon you.” 

“ It is a mournful duty which you will 
have the pleasure of performing this 
very instant,” replied Raymond, posting 
himself before the target. 

Mr. Gordon appeared to hesitate for a 
moment : he had the attitude and the air 
of a man who takes counsel of himself, 
and seeks some expedient for vuthdraw- 
ing from a bad dilemma. Then, as if 
impelled by a sudden impulse, he slowly 
raised the pistol, cocked it, and, with 
his finger upon the trigger, aimed at his 
man. 

It was the middle of April, and the 
most beautiful weather in the world. 
The sky was radiant; the garden had 
put forth new verdure, and begun to 
blossom once more. Around a hive was 
heard a confused buzzing of bees, just 
returned from their first marauding expe- 
dition. A tomtit alighted on the top- 
most bough of a lilac, and poured forth 
his song : his voice was fresh and limpid ; 
he seemed to have the spring in his 
throat. Raymond felt that this sky of 
tenderest blue, that this garden with all 


its budding promise, both were gazing 
upon him ; that they murmured, pointing 
the finger at him, “ The man who stands 
there chose to believe that his life was 
accursed. Happiness, in blonde hair, 
entered his house, seated herself at his 
hearth, and said to him, ‘Make one 
sign, and I am thine ! ’ But he had re- 
plied to her, ‘ Thou art a phantom, and 
I do not wish to know thee.’ And this 
man is about to die : a pistol is levelled 
at him.” 

At this moment, the tomtit took flight ; 
and it seemed to Raymond as if his life 
had flown with her, as if the heart which 
had forsworn the gods, and contemned 
hope, had just ceased to beat in his 
breast. 

Meantime, Mr. Gordon suddenly lower- 
ed his arm and his weapon, saying, “De- 
cidedly, monsieur, I am not so mad as you. 
I fancy only those extravagances into 
which a little reason enters; and, the 
more I reflect upon it, the more I am 
convinced that what we are doing in this 
garden is absolutely senseless and prepos- 
terous.” 

“ Good God ! what idle words ! Fire ! ” 
replied Raymond furiously. 

“ Not until you have well weighed my 
reasoning. Vou are Miss Rovel’s guard- 
ian: what advantage can I derive from 
flghting with you ? If I have the misfor- 
tune to kill you. Lady Rovel will perhaps 
be more than ever opposed to giving me 
her daughter. If you kill me, I shall be 
still further out in my reckoning. Be- 
sides, I am desperately in love ; and, when 
happiness is in my hands, I am not the 
man to let it go.” 

“Will you ever have done? I call 
upon you to fire!” exclaimed Raymond 
beside himself. 

“No monsieur, I will not fire. Ire- 
serve the ball w'hich is in this pistol for 
the rival who shall have the insolence to 
declare to me that he loves Miss Rovel, 
and the audacity to dispute my claim to 
her.” 

Raymond marched up to him with the 
air of a stag at bay : “Ah, well 1 suppose, 
sir,” said he, “suppose this insolent 
man, this rival, is here before you 1 ” 

“ Ah ! you confess it at last?” returned 
Mr. Gordon stepping back. 

“ I confess, ” answered he, in a voice so 
hoarse and broken that it resembled a roar, 
“I confess you have taken from me the 
woman I loved, and that I still love her 
enough to wish to kill you!” 

Scarce had these words been uttered, 
when from the depths of a cart-shed, 
where she had crouched amid baskets 
and wheelbarrows. Miss Rovel suddenly 
appeared, her head bare, her hair dusty 
and dishevelled, her eyes on fire, her face 
haggard, tremulous, pale as a spring 
I morning born of a night of tempests, its 


MISS ROVEL. 


91 


dubious smile shining out from amid the 
clouds. A savage joy was inscribed upon 
her forehead; and, with the emotion of 
long and anxious waiting, was mingled a 
little anger at having waited so long. 

“He can no longer perjure himself,” 
cried she, “ and now he is caught ! ” 

Raymond gazed at her with bewildered 
eyes ; she advanced toward him. He 
recoiled from her, repulsing her with a 
ferocious gesture. She then ran to Mr. 
Grordon, she locked her arm in his, she 
rested her head on the young man’s 
shoulder, and said to him very calmly 
and deliberately, “ My dear Mr. Gordon, 
inform, I pray you, M. Ferray, that you 
care very little about marrying me, that 
you have good reasons for being the best 
of my friends, that with the purest, most 
honorable motives, you have entered into 
the dark conspiracy I formed against 
him. Do me the justice to say, that, in 
despatching him to the Carthusian clois- 
ter to meet you, I hoped to render him 
jealous. Tell him that my endeavors 
succeeded so well, that, from that day, 
I conceived the hope of leading him 
where I wished. Tell him that, in bring- 
ing me back the basil which I had sent 
to you, he gave me to understand, that 
you were pleased with my messenger, 
that you approved my choice. 

“Tell him also, that one night, at a 
mask-ball, you revealed to him the secret 
of his heart, to familiarize him with a 
monster he dared not look in the face. 
Please also explain to him, that, furious 
at his obstinate resistance, I had serious 
thoughts of running away with Prince 
Natti; that you arrived at Geneva in 
time to dissuade me from so foolish a 
step ; tell him that, one cold, windy even- 
ing, you and I had, at the brookside, a 
long conversation, at last interrupted by 
Mile. Ferray, but not until we had de- 
cided to elope together. Finally, explain 
to him, that the mysterious sending of a 
certain medallion was a signal agreed 
upon between us, informing me that you 
had made your arrangements, that, the 
next evening, you would come in a two- 
horse carriage, and await me on the out- 
skirts of the forest. Perhaps, my dear 
Gordon, he will say, that your friendship 
for me is suspicious ; if so, reply to him 
boldly, that there is no Gordon, that a 
man wishing to conceal his identity 
might feign a departure for Barbadoes, 
and that you are William Rovel, my good 
brother, to whom I owe a debt of eter- 
nal gratitude, since, thanks to you, I 
have just heard the man I love declare 
that he still loves me well enough to wish 
to kill you.” 

“I beg your pardon, M. Ferray,” said 
the fictitious Gordon, in turn, unmask- 
ing himself, and advancing a step towards 
Raymond; “ my rd/e has been taken from 


me ; my only crime lies in having tried 
my best to play it well. Wliat would 
you wish? You have just reproached 
me for possessing odd ideas ; one of these 
is perhaps the desire to see my sister a 
happy and a virtuous woman. She de- 
clared to me that her only salvation lay 
in marrying the man she loved. If this 
man had been the Tycoon of Japan, I 
should have rushed to Yeddo to seek him. 
I am delighted at not having been obliged 
to‘ go so far, and at having found, be- 
tween the third and fourth degrees of 
longitude, a man I esteem far more than 
an emperor.” 

Meg interrupted him ; pointing to Ray- 
mond, she said, “William, what a sorry 
figure this poor man cuts ! He is a bad 
player: he does not Imow how to lose.” 

“ And yet he plays, ‘ The Loser Wins,’ ” 
returned her brother. 

She reached her hand to her guardian ; 
but he did not take it. His sombre 
glance rested upon the ground. The 
strangeness of the whole affair, surprise, 
affright, resentment at having been made 
game of by two children, the humiliation 
of defeat, the supreme anguish of a 
pride standing at bay, and a rushing 
tide of other and different emotions, 
had petrified him to such a degree, that 
he stood there powerless to make the 
least movement, or to utter a single 
word. 

Beside herself with anger, Meg ex- 
claimed, “Ah, M. Raymond Ferray, you 
are, after all, playing your part marvel- 
lously well ! You are a great man, and 
great men ought never to contradict 
themselves. I regard as null and void 
the avowal that has just escaped you: 
it had witnesses, to be sure, but we shall 
pray them to be silent. Good heavens ! 
is it really proved that I love yoii ? Our 
two prides have played a game ; mine has 
won, but I will be generous. I will keep 
your secret. Perhaps you will think of 
me as of one reduced to despair. Give 
yourself no uneasiness, I shall be very 
speedily consoled. What future, after 
all, would have been in store for me if I 
had married you ? I might have fancied 
that my greatest pleasure lay in making 
you happy. I now desire to occupy my- 
self only with my own happiness. Before 
long, I shall, in obedience to mamma’s 
wishes, marry some Boisgeiiet, and I 
shall be free as air. My own good pleas- 
ure will be my god. I shall have ten 
thousand fantasies and intrigues and 
admirers, I shall make a noise in the 
world. I shall be the daughter of my 
mother ; and, if the world sees fit to make 
remarks about me, I shall reply, ‘ I loved 
a man who did not want me, and I am 
avenging myself upon life which has re- 
fused me the ahns I asked of it.’” 

As she thus spoke, her cheeks glowed. 


92 


MISS ROVEL. 


her eyes flashed, her nostrils dilated, and, 
with a switch she had just torn from a 
filbert-tree, she lashed the air violently, 
regretting that it was not a face, 'and this 
face that of the man she had loved, but 
whom she was on the point of hating. 
Then, throwing her switch to the ground, 
she continued, ‘‘ For the last time, mon- 
sieur, I tell you that I love you, and that 
you love me: I defy you to forget me. 
Do you want me ? If you say No, or if 
your heart hesitates, you will see me no 
more; but I vow to you by my blonde 
locks, that you will hear of me. Your 
own destiny and mine lie in your hands : 
decide ! ” 

The next instant, Raymond approached 
her, and said in a voice choked with 
emotion, “ Since you absolutely must 
have a victjm. Miss Rovel, you may 
choose me ; I am ready to suffer all for 
you and through you.” 

He seized her hand, which she no 
longer withheld. He raised the hand to 
his lips, and he felt that the kiss he im- 
pressed upon it was the signature he had 
just set to his destiny; that no other 
alternative remained to him, but to sub- 
mit, and to adore his servitude. Meg 
soon recovered her gayety, and cried out 
to him laughing, “I beg your pardon, 
monsieur ; but one evening, in a library, 
you kissed me better than this.” 

He blushed to his ears, and was just 
opening his mouth to demand an explana- 
tion, when William Rovel interposed, and 
said with his unalterable gravity, “ All is 
arranged, and yet nothing is arranged; 
for our chief concern is not love, but 
marriage, and M. Raymond Ferray can- 
not marry Miss Rovel without the con- 
sent of Lady Rovel, to whom Sir John 
Rovel has given a power of attorney in 
due form. This consent M. Ferray is too 
proud to demand ; for you have a very 
strange lover, Meg; and besides, if he 
should demand it, he should be sure to 
meet with a refusal. The main point, 
monsieur, is to so manage that Lady 
Rovel will believe she is compelling you 
to marry her daughter against your will. 
The case is an embarrassing one, I 
admit.” 

“I agree with you,” answered Ray- 
mond, ‘‘ and it is all the more embarras- 
sing, as Lady Rovel w'ill soon come to 
claim her daughter.” Then he told the 
son of his mother’s unexpected arrival 
at Geneva, and of what had passed be- 
tween her and M. de Boisgenet. 

‘‘I am not sorry for that,” replied 
William. Then seizing Raymond’s arm, 
and taking him aside, he added, “ I learn 
from Meg, that, after having sounded 
your praises, my mother has taken a hor- 
rible aversion to you. Do you know its 
cause?” 

Raymond hesitated about giving the 


desired explanation; at last, yielding to 
the young man’s importunities, he said, 
“To be brief, Lady Rovel begged me to 
take her to Mecca, and I refused,” 

“This is a bad piece of business,” ex- 
claimed William Rovel. “ It is clear, that, 
if you go to Arabia, you will not marry 
Meg: it is also clear, that, if you do not go 
there. Lady Rovel will never permit Meg 
to marry you. I have reason to aflfirm 
that the situation is a grave one.” 

At this moment tliere was a loud 
knocking at the garden-gate. William 
ran to open it; and the innkeeper ap- 
peared, holding in his hand a despatch 
■which a mounted courier had just 
brought from Vivian. It was addressed 
to M. Raymond Ferray, who was im- 
plored to hand it immediately to Miss 
Rovel, as its contents were very urgent. 
They were as follows : — 

“ Meg, your giddiness admits of no ex- 
cuse, and justifies all my apprehensions. 
I have never deceived myself. I have 
always divined that you would not rest 
until you had gravely compromised your- 
self ; I have also divined that your guard- 
ian is a cowardly creature : please repeat 
this to him from me. Mr, Glover, the 
missionary you saw at Gersau, is very 
■v\dlling to aid me with his counsels; he 
exhorts me to pracfee indulgence toward 
you. I shall leave Evian in a quarter of 
an hour with this worthy missionary, who 
will henceforth be the oracle of my 
house, and whose decisions I intend shall 
be sacred to you. Come to meet us with 
Mr. Gordon. If that pretender is a pre- 
sentable fellow, perhaps this ridiculous 
affair may be arranged. Mr. Glover will 
decide.” 

“Who is the Rev. Mr. Glover?” asked 
William Rovel: “he appears to me to be 
a new saint just added to tlie calendar.” 

Meg was able to satisfy his curiosity ; 
she had not forgotten the scene enacted 
at Gersau. Her brother seemed greatly 
edified with her explanation, and urged 
Raymond to repair at once to The Hermit- 
age with his ward. “ I take all upon 
myself,” said he, “but I best know how 
to act alone.” 

After some words for and against this 
proposition, Raymond gave his assent; 
and William Rovel, having hired a s-wiH 
horse, set out for Evian upon the gallop. 
He had not gone half a league, when he 
sa-w approaching him an open caleche, 
which contained two persons. Although 
the twilight was falling, he made up his 
mind, when some distance off, that one of 
these persons was Lady Rovel, and that 
the other answered to the description of 
the Wesleyan missionary. 

Lady Rovel had also recognized he»* 
son. She made a gesture of astonish- 
ment, and ordered her coachman to stop. 
Then, as she sat half reclining in her car- 


MISS HOVEL. 93 


riage before the door of which her son 
had halted bolt upright as a stake in the 
saddle, the following decisive conversation 
went on in English: — 

“ Is this really you, William ? Have I 
not forbidden you to appear in my pres- 
ence? ” 

“I believed, dear madame, that the 
public highways belonged to the whole 
world, even to those unhaj^py mortals 
who are exiled from your good graces,” 
returned he with his most agreeable air. 

“No fine jDhrases: I have a horror of 
them. I thought you were in Barbadoes 
or in England ; and I supposed that when 
you got there you would remain.” 

“Ah, madame! it happens that I re- 
turned very apropos.” 

“ Do you seek to persuade me that you 
have ever done any thing apropos in your 
life?” 

“Every rule has its exceptions; there 
are happy chances in life.' I shall always 
congratulate myself for having arrived 
from England just in the nick of time, — 
just at the moment to meet upon a pub- 
lic highway, and to apprehend bodily. 
Miss Meg Rovel, my dear sister, who was 
roaming over the country with a young 
man.” 

Lady Rovel suddenly drew herself up. 
“ Where is Meg?” cried she. 

“ Be calm, dear lady, be calm! ” mur- 
mured Mr. Glover. 

“ It is too much to ask of me, reverend 
sir!” responded she in her shrillest 
voice. — “ William, I present to you Mr. 
Glover, the Wesleyan missionary, who 
has converted the sister of the King of 
Saloum. — Mr. Glover, I present to you 
my son, who is the most impertinent 
young man the three kingdoms have ever 
produced. — ^Vliere is Meg?” repeated 
she in a still sharper tone. 

“ Excuse her, madame, she has not 
dared brave your just resentment; but 
she has charged me to assure you of her 
repentance and her submission.” 

“I believe in the one just as much as 
in the other. And where is Mr. Gor- 
don ? William, go this instant, and hunt 
up Mr. Gordon for me.” 

“Just now that would be difficult. 
The Gordons are unapproachable and in- 
tangible. This one has disappeared in 
the air.” 

“ What do you mean l)y this wretched 
jest ? Is it that you have perhaps killed 
him, William?” And, turning to the 
missionary. Lady Rovel added, “ That 
would be a mistake, a nonsensical thing: 
don’t you think so, Mr. Glover? ” 

“Ah, my lady,” replied he gravely, “ it 
would be far more than a mistake, a 
foolish thing: the gospel forbids us ” — 

“You understand, William,” inter- 
posed she, “Mr. Glover thinks as I do, 
that you have done a very foolish act in 


killing Mr. Gordon ; but you are a hard- 
ened sinner.” 

“ Re-assure yourself, dear madame ; Mr. 
Gordon is still living. He has some good 
traits, this young man; his character 
rather pleases me, and I have not been 
tempted to fight with him. And besides, 
we have only to deal here with an esca- 
pade of two school-children. This young 
coxcomb, a short time ago, made a brief 
sojourn at the Chartreuse d’Ema; he met 
Meg occasionally, and they fell in love 
with each other; I hear that they had 
formed the judicious project of emigrat- 
ing together to New Zealand. Believe 
me, this affair is a mere trifle, and they 
are both as innocent as two doves.” 

“So much the more reason, William, 
for hastening to seek Mr. Gordon. I 
have resolved to marry him to Meg: it 
is Mr. Glover’s advice, and I desire" you 
to consider his counsels decrees.” 

“Your confidence, my lady, is too flat- 
tering to me,” responded Mr. Glover; 
“but you have misapprehended my idea. 
I only said, that if, after mature deliber- 
ation” — 

“Consider yourself sovereign arbiter 
in this case,” said Lady Rovel. “I 
understand: there is to be no appeal 
from your decision. — Ah, well, William! 
have you not gone yet ? I shall not stir 
from this place until you have brought 
Mr. Gordon to me.” 

“Permit me,” returned her son, “to 
call your attention to the fact, that INIr. 
Gordon runs very nearly as fast as I, that 
he has legs exactly as long as mine, and 
therefore it might not be easy to overtake 
him. And then this carrier-off of little 
girls would not make a sedate husband ; 
he is as indiscreet, as hot-headed, as im- 
pertinent — as your humble servant. In 
short, we resemble each other, he and I, 
like two drops of water.” 

“ You mean to say like two cells in 
Bedlam. If that is so, he shall not be 
my son-in-law. This is also your opin- 
ion, is it not, Mr. Glover?” 

“ May I dare represent to you, my 
lady, that the promptitude of your decis- 
ions somewhat embarrasses my ideas? 
It appears to me, that, in an affair of such 
gravity, too much time cannot be given 
to reflection, and that before making up 
one’s mind ” — 

“You sit there, and don’t budge any 
more than a stock or a stone, William,” 
interrupted Lady Rovel. “Your indif- 
ference exasperates me. Since I deign to 
consult you, have you an idea? If you 
are really capable of having an idea fit to 
make its appearance in good society, 
please impart it to me.” 

. “My idea is, madame, that, after an 
event which must give rise to so much 
scandal, we ought to have Meg married 
at any price.” 


94 


mss HOVEL. 


“This is really the first time I have 
heard you say any thing sensible.” 

“ And it is my opinion that she should 
be married immediately, before she has 
had time to give rise to a second scandal.” 

“ Yes, immediately, as soon as possible, 
since I am about to depart on a long 
journey, and literally do not know what 
to do with your sister, unless — I get her 
married. Have you any one to recom- 
mend to me?” 

“ At Lucerne, last year, I got a glimpse 
of a certain Marquis de Boisgeiiet, who, 
if I do not deceive myself, was very 
agreeable to you.” 

“You speak at random. The marquis 
is an idiot, with whom I have fallen out 
forever. And then, besides, it would be 
decidedly impossible to me ever to accus- 
tom myself to his cravats.” 

Mr. Glover smiled in spite of himself. 
“That, my lady, is a reason which does 
not seem to me absolutely determina- 
tive,” said he; “and if you have no 
stronger objection” — 

“Would you believe it, Mr. Glover,” 
interposed she, “that this Boisgenet’s 
favorite color is turquoise blue ? ( I posi- 
tively cannot give my daughter to a man 
who admires txirquqise Wue.” 

“ Obviously' you caiihot,” replied Wil- 
liam. “Dear madame, would it not be 
well to insert in the public journals, a 
paragraph to this effect ? — ‘A young 
lady has run away from the house of her 
guardian ; her relatives are anxious that 
she shall not do it again, and offer a 
handsome recompense to the man of good 
principles who will marry her.’ ” 

“William,” answered Lady Rovel se- 
verely, “I never could endure either 
jests or jesters.” Then, addressing her- 
self to Mr. Glover, she added, “My son 
is a madcap; there is not an ounce of 
common-sense in his head. You see my 
cruel embarrassment, monsieur; do you 
know of a disposable son-in-law?” 

“I conjure you. Lady Rovel,” said he, 
“not to be in such haste; precipitation 
is always fatal. Let a few months roll 
away; the world quickly forgets, and 
time passes its sponge over all. Exercise 
a little patience, and you will not have to 
take up with the first one who comes 
along. Heaven will perhaps grant you 
the son-in-law you would desire. I 
should wish him to be a man, steady, 
sedate, armed with solid principles, and 
of an age already ripe. Until you meet 
this excellent man, do not let your 
daughter again leave you. You know 
better than I, that nothing is sweeter, 
nothing more advantageous to a mother, 
than to keep her daughter under her 
wing. In guarding her, she guards her- 
self against the world; the arch-enemy 
of mankind will not dare come and at- 
tack her in that dear and holy compan- 


ship, and the mother, obliged to preach 
by example” — 

He was allowed to say no more. Lady 
Rovel, whose feet for the last two min- 
utes had been moving like a mill-hopper, 
all at once cried out, “ William, where 
have you unearthed this horse? He is 
horribly spavined, and I feel it is my 
duty to forewarn you that you and he 
compose a very rMiculous group.” 

“I am sorry for it, madame; but 
whether my horse is spavined, or not, I 
desire to submit to you a proposition 
which will very likely seem absurd.” 

“It must infallibly appear so: never- 
theless tell me what it is.” 

“Does it not appear to you as to me, 
that, in strict justice, the man who has 
caused this calamity ought to be re- 
quired to repair it? If Meg’s reputation 
is seriously compromised, if this esca- 
pade has rendered Meg almost unmar- 
riageable, whose is the blame? It be- 
longs to her guardian who did not know 
how to watch over her. I believe we 
ought to compel M. Ferray to marry Meg.” 

“ Your proposition has something spe- 
cious upon the surface, but at bottom it 
is absurd and idiotic to the last degree. 
M. Ferray is a poor creature whom I 
detest. Let us say no more about it. I 
would just as soon have Mr. Gordon for 
a son-in-law as he.” 

“ Oh ! ” said William, “ I only spoke of 
it to beat about the bush. M. Ferray 
would never consent to marry my sister, 
I fear.” 

“ The trouble is not there. Does he 
take it upon himself to have a will of his 
own, this monsieur?” Then, elevating 
her chin, she added, “But William, I 
should hope you had not allowed your- 
self to make any overtures in this direc- 
tion?” 

“ Any thing is pardonable in fools, 
mamma : they do not know how to hold 
their tongues. But I was flayed in a 
fine fashion, I assure you ! M. Ferray flew 
into a rage ; his eyes seemed starting from 
his head. He declared to me in the jnost 
vehement tone, that he would sooner 
hang himself than marry, that he exe- 
crated all women, that Meg was espe- 
cially intolerable to him ; and to all this 
he added, in a style which seemed to me 
sadly wanting in Atticism, that he was 
not the man to accommodate himself with 
Mr. Gordon’s leavings. The fact is, — 
in such cases this often happens — he has 
not told me his true reason.” 

“May any 'one know it? ” 

“ His heart is no longer free. I shall 
not tell you how I learned this; but I 
will content myself with hinting to you, 
that Meg is an indiscreet girl, and may 
have listened through a keyhole to 
some conversation between M. Ferray 
and his sister.” 


MISS HOVEL. 


95 


“ Has befallen in love, this Bedouin?” 
asked Lady Eovel, elevating her shoul- 
ders. “ What sort of person is his Dulci- 
nea? What scullery-maid ? ” 

‘ ‘ A great lady, on the contrary, — an 
Olympian goddess. It appears that M. 
Ferray has recently made a journey to 
Italy. He returned so dreamy, so mel- 
ancholy, that his sister one day asked 
him the cause of his sorrow. He con- 
fessed that he had met in Florence a 
woman who had once made the most 
lively impression on his heart ; that, upon 
seeing her again, he had been inflamed 
anew ; that she had deigned to make some 
advances to him ; that in the obstinacy of 
a fixed resolution, in the arrogance of 
philosophy, he had refused his happiness ; 
that love had become its own avenger; 
that the image of this woman pursued 
him ; that he was consumed with regret 
for his irreparable fault.” 

Mr. Glover began to be a little scandal- 
ized by all this he heard. “ Young man,” 
cried he, “how can you seriously dream 
of marrying your sister to a man who is 
in love with another woman ? There is 
in such a project an indelicacy so revolt- 
ing ” — 

“I cannot deny to you,” interposed 
Lady Rovel, “that your little recital 
pleases me, and that you have related it 
quite charmingly. It is, then, true that 
this lugubrious personage is dying of cha- 
grin for having stupidly refused that which 
he was dying to accept ? Did I not tell him 
that he was of false granite ? ” 

At these words she broke out into a 
fit of laughter, sharp, bitter, ferocious, 
which caused Mr. Glover an uncomfort- 
able trepidation. “Do you know, Wil- 
liam,” continued she, “that your propo- 
sition is less absurd than it seemed to me 
at first ? It is certainly but just, that a 
guardian who has allowed his ward to 
compromise herself should be bound to 
marry her.” 

“ What do you say, my lady?” cried Mr. 
Glover. “Would you have your daugh- 
ter marry a man who has an utter aver- 
sion to her, a man whose heart is no 
longer free, a man who is a poor creature, 
a man whom you detest? ” 

“ Oil ! I shall arrange things so as to see 
him but seldom,” said she. 

“Lady Rovel,” continued Mr. Glover, 
raising his voice, “ since you do me the 
honor to ask my advice, it is my duty to 
represent to you ” — 

“That the husband suited to my 
daughter,” said she excitedly, cutting 
short his words, “can be only a serious 
man fortified by solid principles, and of 
an age already ripe. Is not this what 
you have just been saying to me? M. 
Ferray fills all the required conditions. 
He was thirty years old the day he was 
born, which to-day makes him past sixty ; 


he is more serious than an owl, — so seri- 
ous that he has not laughed three times 
in his whole life ; and, as for principles, he 
bristles with them like a porcupine that 
rolls himself into a ball. — Ah, well, Wil- 
liam! Why are you loitering here? 
Since you wish it, since I wish it, since 
Mr. Glover also wishes it, depart for Gene- 
va on the triple gallop with your sorry nag, 
and go and tell M. Ferray, if his melan- 
choly will allow him to listen to you, that 
it is his duty to marry Meg, and that, if 
need be, I command it.” 

“ You jest, madame ! He may strangle 
me, but he will not listen to me. ” 

“You make me pity you, ” replied she, 
elevating her voice. “ Learn, William, 
that we do nothing of value in this world 
without a profound disdain for the will 
of others. Ask Mr. Glover, if, before con- 
verting a Mandinguan, he amuses himself 
in finding out whether conversion will be 
agreeable to him. ” 

“ Hear me for an instant, ” interposed 
the missionary; “there are distinctions 
to be made, my lady, and I implore you 
to believe” — 

“ I do believe in you ! ” said she. “ You 
are a hero, and great courage despises 
small scruples. Pardon my son: the 
youth of our day have an incredible petti- 
ness of mind. — Finally, William, this 
affair concerns you, and we shall see of 
what you- are capable. In a few days, 
I shall send you all the necessary 
documents; and, by to-morrow, I shall 
have written to your sister to signify my 
wishes to her. Charge upon M. Ferray, 
attack him boldly, carry a high hand with 
him, pursue him closely ; and, no matter 
how obstinate his resistance, do not give 
up the contest. He is not so terrible as 
you think. Scratch, scratch, and under 
the outside coating you will soon find 
the India-rubber. We may never meet 
again, William. Good evening. The 
night-dews are falling, and I fear Mr. 
Glover will take cold. ” 

“One word more, one single word,” 
said the son to his mother. “ If, contrary 
to all expectation, I succeed in my peril- 
ous mission, it is understood that you are 
not to disavow it ; that would render my 
position ridiculous.” 

“What disavowal could you fear?” 
replied she haughtily. “ Mr. Glover is 
your surety. I should really like to see 
the person who would allow himself to 
appeal from a decision of Mr. Glover’s, 
or the person who would have the auda- 
city to disarrange a marriage Mr. Glover 
had arranged.” 

William bowed deferentially to his 
mother, and had just turned to go, when 
she called him back, and whispered in 
his ear, “If M. Ferray should mention 
that grand lady to you, reply to him that 
she must surely have been trying to make 


96 


MISS ROVEL. 


sport of him, and that she well proves 
this to him to-day. Add, that many a 
fisherman who has threatened to drown 
himself because he failed to catch a trout 
has ended by supping gayly from a carp, 
reserving to himself, as a matter of course, 
the right still to dream of his trout.” 

Pie bowed her another adieu ; but, as he 
rode * away, she cried out after him, 
“ Apropos, William, you trot badly, you 
have not a steady hand; and the inevit- 
able result of this is, that you ride very 
ungracefully. Try and improve in this 
respect, or such awkwardness may com- 
promise the future of a handsome enough 
young fellow.” Then she ordered her 
coachman to wheel about, and take her 
back to Evian. So tender was her solici- 
tude for Mr. Glover’s health, that she 
obliged the missionary, in spite of his 
lively remonstrances, to protect himself 
from the chill evening air by accepting 
half of her shawl. 

Thus, in the midst of a public high- 
way, while the early night-dews were 
falling over the landscape, and the first 
stars were twinkling from the sky, at the 
end of a quarter of an hour’s conference 
between an open caleche and a spavined 
horse, was decided, arranged, concluded, 
through the counsels of a missionary who 
had not been allowed to finish a single 
one of his phrases, the marriage of Ray- 
mond I’erray and Miss Meg Rovel. En- 
chanted with having so well conducted his 
negotiations, and quite carried away by 
their success, William Rovel galloped 
back to Geneva, doing his best to catch 
up with the beiiin which bore Meg and 
her guardian. 

Lady Rovel was no less happy than her 
son. Into her felicity entered, in about 
equal doses, the agreeable prospect of 
being forever freed from the care and the 
rivalry of her daughter, the satisfaction 
of having for a son-in-law a man who 
was in love with herself, the assurance 
that the insolent pedant who had pre- 
sumed to despise her favor had avenged 
her through the bitterest remorse, the 
sweet satisfaction that a well-spent day 
lejfves behind it, the joyousness of a 
heart putting forth new blossoms of hope, 
a reconquered future, the beauty of that 
evening star for which she had always 
professed a superstitious reverence, and 
whose vivid lustre seemed to her a happy 
presage; and, finally, the brown eyes of 
a missionary, and the confused vision of a 
negro king, who at this very moment, 
assailed by a sudden presentiment, was 
perhaps dreaming of the most beautiful 
of the whites. 

Mr. Glover was less content. It out- 
raged his sense of truth and candor to 
find himself regarded -as the author of a 
marriage which he had absolutely disap- 
proved ; and the character of Lady Rovel 


began to alarm him. He feared that her 
conversion would require a longer time 
than that of twenty thousand Mandin- 
guans ; and he questioned his conscience 
as to whether he had done well in accept- 
ing half of her shawl. 

Meantime, Meg had a long interview 
with her guardian. He made known to 
her his apprehensions ; he exhorted her to 
take ample time to reflect, to examine 
her sentiments, to assui’e herself that her 
heart was not the dupe of her imagina- 
tion. He represented to her their incom- 
patibility in age, in disposition; and he 
especially reproached her for her rare 
talent as comedienne. She closed his 
mouth by saying to him, “ Let us- put 
things at the worst : let us suppose that 
my faults are to cause you a great deal of 
suffering. It is an adage of my mother’s, 
who has never passed for a fool, that the 
man who is not willing to suffer should 
renounce life, and that he who renounces 
life is a coward.” 

As they arrived at an inn situated upon 
the summit of a hill, they met a small, 
open carriage, in which was jolted about 
a little, meagre woman. Left to wait, 
devoured by anxiety, Mile. Ferray had 
decided to set out for Thoiion. She had 
been going along at a jog-trot, talking 
with the darkness, with the wind, with 
the earth, with the sky, with I know not 
what invisible being who appeared to her 
more real than all that is seen. Big with 
thoughts which far outstripped her 
glance, her little eyes rummaged un- 
weariedly into the mysteries of the night, 
as if to wrest from them their secret. 
Meg recognized her by the vivid glow 
projected from a forge, and cried out to 
her, “ My dream is fulfilled, mademoi- 
selle : I have to-day discovered a wise man 
who is fool enough to marry me.” 

Mile. Ferray slipped unbidden from 
the vehicle ; and, her brother calling her, 
she rushed toward him. She was fore- 
stalled by a horseman who came , up on 
the gallop, and, presenting himself at the 
carriage-door, said solemnly to Raymond, 
“Monsieur, you are either to marry my 
sister, or I am to blow out your brains. 
Such is the express command of my ter- 
rible mother.” 

Raymond gazed at him with a stupefied 
air : then all at once, seized by a strange 
joy which had the accent of rage, he 
cried, “So be it! The lot is cast; the 
gardener’s dog is about to eat; but woe 
to the impudent cur who shall dare come 
prowling around his basket! ” 

And now a sudden illumination came 
to Mile. Ferray: she comprehended that 
all was explained, that all was arranged. 
Without making further inquiries, with- 
out really knowing what she did, in 
default of something better, she confi- 
dentially embraced William Rovel’ s great 


MISS ROVEL. 


97 


riding-boot ; while that young man, rising 
in his stirrups, cried out at the top of his 
voice to all the people of the inn, “ Bring 
me a bottle of champagne! I wish to 
celebrate the new victory perfidious 
Albion has just gained over France ! ” 


Some weeks later. Lady Rovel assisted 
at the marriage of her daughter. She 
wore the severe toilet of a woman who 
has renounced the world, and vowed her- 
self to a life of austerities. She departed 
the next day for Africa as a missionary, 
under the care of Mr. Glover, who, more 
and more embarrassed with his neophyte, 
still charitably persisted in not despairing 
of her amendment. 

Raymond has become reconciled to 
Paris, to the world, and to the History of 
Mahomet. If it must be told, people pre- 
tend that he is not happy, that he is tor- 
mented by jealousy. I believe nothing at 
all of it, and I will tell you the reason 
why. The last time he went back to The 
Hermitage, he betook himself to the house 
Lady Rovel had occupied, to buy an old 
oak clothes-press. As the owners made 
some objection to selling it, asking the 


reason of this strange caprice, and what 
value he could possibly attach to an old 
piece of furniture by no means a work of 
art, he answered, “ It was there I found 
happiness, and it is the first time happi- 
ness has been found in a clothes-press.” 

Not long since, we read in the English 
journals, that a woman celebrated for her 
beauty and her adventures had arrived, in 
the company of a missionary, at Kaconc, 
the capital of the kingdom of Saloum; 
that she had undertaken to convert the 
sovereign to Christianity, but had con-, 
verted him only to her beauty and to 
monogamy. It was also stated, that she 
had had violent words with the missionary 
on this subject ; and that, having procured 
his banishment by royal edict, she had 
been enthroned in the depopulated sera- 
glio, where, venerated by the whole coun- 
try as a fetich, — and this is the ne plus 
ultra of Senegambian adoration, — she 
reigns to-day, and finds the most lively 
satisfaction in swaying the sceptre over 
four hundred thousand frizzled heads. 
This proves that there are many ways of 
being happy ; but the most precarious of 
all happiness must be that which depends 
upon the whims and caprices of a Man- 
diguan king. 


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EX^OCHIS OS’ HUSTOSfS". 


The ERA of the PROTESTANT REVOLUTION. By F. Seebohm, Author of 

“The Oxford Reformers — Colet, Erasmus, More.” With 4 Colored Maps and 12 Woodcuts. 

The CRUSADES, By the Rev. G. W. Cox, M. A., late Scholar of Trinity College 

Oxford; Author o-f the “ History of Greece,” &c. With Colored Map. 

The THIRTY YEARS’ WAR, 1518-1648. By Samuel Rawson Gaedimer, late 

Student of Ch. Ch. With Colored Mrips. 

The HOUSES of LANCASTER and YORK; with the CONQUEST and 

LOSS of FRANCE. By James Gairdner, of the Public Record Office; Editor of “ Tlie Paston 
Letters,” and of “Letters and Papers illustrative of the Reigns of Richard III. and Henry VII.” in 
the Rolls Series. With 5 Colored Maps. 

EDWARD 111. By the Rev. W. Warbu-rtoj^, M. A., late Fellow of All Souls College, 

Oxford ; Her Majesty’s Senior Inspector of Schools. 

The BEGINNING of the MIDDLE AGES; CHARLES THE GREAT and 

ALFRED; the HISTORY OF ENGLAND in its connection with that of EUROPE in the NINTH 
CENTURY. By the Very Rev. R>i^Y. Church, M.A., Dean of St. Paul’s. 

The NORMAN KINGS and the FEUDAL SYSTEM. By Rev. A. II. Johnson, 

M. A. Fellow of All Souls College, Oxford. 

The EARLY PLANTAGENETS and their Relation to the HISTORY of 

EUROPE : the foundation and growth of CONSTITUTIONAL GOVERNMENT. By the Rev. Wil- ' 
LIAM Stcbrs, M.A., &c., Regius Professor of Modern History in the University of Oxford: Editor of 
“ Select Charters of English Constitutional History from the Earliest Times to the Reign of Edward 
I.,” and of several Chronicles and Memorials of this Period in the Rolls Series. 

The AGE of ELIZABETH. By the Rev. M. Creighton, M. A., Fellow of Merton 

College of Oxford. 

The STUARTS and the PURITAN REVOLUTION. By J. Langton Sanfokd, 

Author of “ Studies and Illustrations of the Great Rebellion,” “ Estimates of the English Kings,” &c. 

The FALL of the STUARTS and WESTERN EUROPE from 1678 to 1697. 

By the Rev. Edward Hale, M.A., Assistant Master of Eton. 

The AGE of ANNE. By Edward E. Morris, M. A., Editor of the Series. 

FREDERICK THE GREAT and the SEVEN YEARS’ WAR. By F. W. Longman, 

of Balliol College, Oxford. 

The WAR of AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. By John Malcolm Ludlow, Bar- 

rister-at-Law, Author of “ A Sketch of the History of the United States from Independence to 
Secession,” &c, 


T/ia above are published at 61.00 per volume^ and sent to any address^ postpaid^ on 

receipt of the price^ by 

ESTES &■ LAURIAT, 

Publishers^ Booksellers^ and Importers, 

SOI Washington Street, Boston. 

(orPOSITE OLD souxn.) 


CHARLES KNIGHT’S 

Popular History of England 


I As an appropriate companion to Guizot’s Popular History of France 
we shall issue, in the same sumptuous style, this truly magnificent work. It is ai 
Illustrated History of Society and Government, from the earliest period to th« 
year 1867. By Charles Knight. With more than 1000 Illustrations, including 
numerous fine Steel Portraits. 

This is the only complete standard History of England. 

The reader must go through Hume, Smollett, Macaulay, Froude, Martineau, anc 
others, to go over the ground which is well covered in this work. Not only does i 
give with accuracy and system the historical events from the Druidical times dowr 
I to the present decade, but it also depicts minutely the manners and customs of eacl 
era. The author suggests that its title should be a History of the English People 
i rather than a History of England. Numerous plates illustrate the text, and presem 
vividly to the reader the actors and scenes of the narrative ; and a copious Inde; 
facilitates reference to the contents of the work. 

We very cordially recommend these volumes to the readers whom they seek. We know of n< 
History of England so free from prejudice ; so thoroughly honest and impartial ; so stored with facts 
fancies, and illustrations ; and therefore none so well adapted for school or college as this. — Londor 

\ A the 7 icBti 7 jt. 

i Its literary merits are of a very high order ; indeed, nothing has ever appeared superior, if any 
; thing has been published equal, to the account of the state of commerce, government, and society a 
! different periods. — Lord Brougha 77 t. 

Mr. Knight’s book well deserves its name ; it will be emphatically popular, and it will gain iti 
popularity by genuine merit. It is as good a book of the kind as ever was written. — IVisiTTtimUi 
Review. 

The best history extant, not only for, but also of, the people. — All the Year Round, 

I A standard book on the shelves of all libraries . — London Spectator. 

i The last and greatest literary work of his life. This history will remain, for many a long day 
a standard work. — London Thnes. 

I This work is the very best History of England that we possess. — London Standard, 

1 Eight volumes, 8vo, Cloth, uncut, $25.cx> 

I “ “ “ Cloth, bevelled, gilt extra, trimmed edges, 25.CX) 

j “ “ “ Half calf extra, 45*oo 

! “ “ “ Half morocco extra, .... 45*oo ' 

[ “ “ “ Full tree calf, London bound, . . 60.00 ' 

Sent, prepaid, to any address, upon receipt of price, by 

ESTES <Sz; LjATJEIAlT, 

^DMisjjcrs. goohsellers, anil Imprkrs, 

143 WASHINGTON ST., BOSTON. 


Prospectus 


EPOCHS OF HISTORY. 

EDITED BY 

E. MORRIS. 


T^HE CONVICTION has long been growing that for schools in general 
JL small and cheap books, if carefully prepared, are better than those which are larger 
ind more costly. 

The difficulty of applying this idea to books of history is the risk of spoiling 
he interest by diminishing the detail. But it is generally allowed that the complete pic- 
iire of any short period is of more value, in an educational point of view, than a mere 
mtline of the history of a nation ; and the practice, dictated by the course of many public 

t xaminations, of reading periods of history, seems to suggest a way in which it may be 
(ossible to secure in handy and cheap volumes that fullness without which history is un- 
profitable. 

[ For schools, the study of elaborate histories is, and must remain, an impossi- 
pility ; and, generall}^, it may be safel}^ said that in school routine time cannot be found for 
toing through the complete continuous history of more than one or two countries at most, 
put it is not possible to understand thoroughly the history of even one country, if it be 
Studied alone. A knowledge of the condition of surrounding countries is of at least equal 
Importance with its own previous history. 

To Teachers this series will be found of inestimable value. The simplicity 
ind clearness of the style renders the subject-matter easily remembered, so that the teacher 
:an, without great mental exertion, impart to pupils the story of the events embraced in 
^ach volume. 

; It is hoped, therefore, that the series of books to which the present volume 
pelongs may meet a want which cannot be met by continuous histories of any one country ; 
fheir object being, not to recount all the events of any giren epoch, but to bring out in the 
clearest light those incidents and features on which the mind of the young most readily 
fastens, and all those characteristics which exhibit the life of a people as well as the-policy 
bf their rulers, special attention being paid to the literature, manners, and state of knowl- 
edge during each epoch. 

I 

' This series has already been adopted as a text-book in several colleges and 

)ther leading educational institutions in the United States. 

ESTES & LAURIAT, 

PulDllshers, Booksellers, and Importers, 


SOI Washington Street, Boston. 

(opposite old south.) 




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